HOSPITALITY
I HATE to eat at a friend’s abode—he makes me carry too big a load. He keeps close tab, and he has a fit, if I show a sign that I’d like to quit. “You do not eat as a host could wish—pray, try some more of the deviled fish. Do put some vinegar on your greens, and take some more of the boneless beans, and have a slice of the rich, red beet, and here’s a chunk of the potted meat. We’ll think our cooking has failed to please, if you don’t eat more of the Lima peas, of the stringless squash and the graham rolls, and the doughnuts crisp, with their large round holes. You are no good with the forks and spoons—do try a dish of our home grown prunes!” I eat and eat, at my friend’s behest, till the buttons fly from my creaking vest. I stagger home when the meal is o’er, and nightmares come when I sleep and snore; and long thereafter my stomach wails, as though I’d swallowed a keg of nails. Be wise, be kind to the cherished guest, and let him quit when he wants to rest! Don’t make him eat through the bill of fare, when you see he’s full of a dumb despair!
HON. CROESUS EXPLAINS
Oh, yes, I own a mill or two where little children toil; but why this foolish how-de-do, this uproar and turmoil? You say these children are but slaves, who, through the age-long day, must work in dark and noisome caves to earn a pauper’s pay? You hold me up to public scorn as one who’s steeped in sin; and yet I feel that I adorn the world I’m living in.
But yesterday I wrote two checks for twenty-seven plunks to build a Home for Human Wrecks and buy them horsehair trunks.
In building up monopolies I’ve crushed a thousand men? I’m tired of that old chestnut; please don’t spring that gag again. I cannot answer for the fate of those by Trade unmade; for men who cannot hit the gait must drop from the parade. If scores of people got the worst of deals I had in line, if by the losers I am cursed, that is no fault of mine. And you, who come with platitude, are but an also ran; I use my money doing good, as much as any man.
I’m doing good while Virtue rants and of my conduct moans; for a Retreat for Maiden Aunts I just gave twenty bones.
I hold too cheap employees’ lives, you cry in tones intense; I’m making widows of their wives, to keep down my expense. I will not buy a fire escape, or lifeguards now in style, and so the orphan’s wearing crape upon his Sunday tile. I know just what my trade will stand before it bankrupt falls, and so I can’t equip each hand with costly folderols. There is no sentiment in trade, let that be understood; but when my work aside is laid, my joy’s in doing good.
Today I coughed up seven bucks to Ladies of the Grail, who wish to furnish roasted ducks to suffragists in jail.