"'But aren't you happy in your music?' I asked.
"'Yes,' she replied in such a sad way that it meant a million nos.
"When I went back to my friends they told me the girl's father was not of much account or otherwise he would send her off to a good teacher.
"'Now, that's going to take only a few hundred dollars,' said I. 'You are here on the spot and there surely ought to be enough money in the town to educate this girl. I can't stay here to do this thing, but you can put me down for fifty.'
"Well, sir, do you know the people in the town did help that girl along. When the women heard what a traveling man was willing to do, they no longer barred her out because, for bread, she played a violin in a beer garden, but they opened their doors to her and helped her along. The girl got a music class and with some assistance went to a conservatory of music in Boston where she is studying today."
Traveling men are not angels; yet in their black wings are stuck more white feathers than they are given credit for—this is because some of the feathers grow on the under side of their wings. Much of evil, anyway, like good, is in the thinking. It is wrong to say a fruit is sour until you taste it; is it right to condemn the drummer before you know him?
Days—and nights, too—of hard work often come together in the life of the road man. Then comes one day when he rides many hours, perhaps twenty-four, on the train. He needs to forget his business; he does. Less frequently, I wager, than university students, yet sometimes the drummer will try his hand at a moderate limit in the great American game.
A year or more ago a party of four commercial travelers were making the trip from Portland to San Francisco, a ride of thirty-six hours— two nights and one day. They occupied the drawing room. After breakfast, on the day of the journey, one of the boys proposed a game of ten cent limit "draw." They all took part. There is something in the game of poker that will keep one's eyes open longer than will the fear of death, so the four kept on playing until time for luncheon. About one o'clock the train stopped for half an hour at a town in Southern Oregon. The party went out to take a stretch. Instead of going into the dining room they bought, at the lunch counter, some sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, doughnuts and pies and put them in their compartment. On the platform an old man had cider for sale; they bought some of that. Several youngsters sold strawberries and cherries. The boys also bought some of these. In fact, they found enough for a wholesome, appetizing spread.
The train was delayed longer than usual. The boys, tired of walking, came back to their quarters. They asked me to have some lunch with them. Just as one of the party opened a bottle of cider a little, barefoot, crippled boy, carrying his crutch under one arm and a basket half full of strawberries under the other, passed beneath the window of their drawing room.
"Strawberries. Nice fresh strawberries, misters—only a dime a box," called out the boy. "Three for a quarter if you'll take that many."