I bought a small business one time from a devout Presbyterian; I had the greatest confidence and trust in him, which I had a sad right to have. If false colors are carried we must find it out because they carry no notice to warn us. Well, anyway, he spread the tempting menu of his careful preparation in great shape. He was pleasant, courteous and very entertaining. The way he figured up the invoice you’d thought mathematics was his specialty. His tongue kept pace with his pencil and after everything was figured up he brought up the “Bonus Good Will” part and I really thought he was letting me do him a favor by giving him one hundred iron men. You see I wanted his good will along with everybody else’s. I am glad I learned about this “Good Will” business. All told “Good Will” and “Bonuses” have cost me nine hundred and thirty-three dollars thirty-three and a third cents. Don’t try to fool me on “Good Wills” again; they’re a drug on the market, very unsaleable and unpopular to your humble servant. After I paid the “Good Will” price and everything was agreeably settled I started in with my maiden business. Going through the bags and some other stuff in the back room a few days afterwards, I discovered bags invoiced and paid for at one hundred pounds shy. “Shy,” I said, and he a Christian! This taught me that there are eighty and ninety pound Christians. The loud smelling, decaying and life moving gunny sacks contained prepared meats for poultry. I quit in disgust and went into the front department; a fellow stepped in and said, “How is business?” and I answered “Rotten.” A frank acknowledgment of a painful truth. Other things ran about the same; the horses were sold as unblemished, sound as a dollar, etc., and mind you, he a Christian and ministers dropping in every few days and talking and planning how to increase the congregation. My, I’m glad I used that harrow! When I sold out the business, I marked down experiences one thousand dollars. I felt pretty blue after I had lost the thousand bones I worked hard to get, and it used to be when I got the blues I eased my mind with graveyard poetry; pardon me for inserting it here. If I should die tonight how few would care; Perhaps some heart would ache, some one somewhere, Some might cast a lingering look, a tear And tremble with emotion at my bier, But before many days would pass away, Before my silent form would turn to clay, I’d be forgotten and alone, And not a heart to ache or moan. Oh! this bitter, lonely life’s a snare, The kind friends you hear so much about are rare. Some may mean it in their hearts but feign And measure men by dollars not by brain.