KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
When I go into someone’s store, to buy a nickel’s worth or more, some questions I may spring; for I have an inquiring mind; all kinds of facts I like to find, and place them on a string. I ask the grocer if his tea was grown beside the Zuyder Zee, or down along the Po; and I’m disgusted when he sighs, and claws his whiskers and replies, “I really do not know.”
I hold that every business man should follow up the good old plan and know his stock in trade; the wise old grocer always knew just where his shredded codfish grew, and where his prunes were made. The wise old clothier knows that wool is never gathered from a bull, and tells his patrons so; that merchant wearies by his acts, who answers, when you ask for facts, “I’m sure I do not know.”
We have a lumber man named Chee; I asked him, “On what sort of tree do lath and shingles grow?” He said, “We have the shingles there, and where they grew I do not care, and neither do I know.” This answer filled me with amaze; he’d handled shingles all his days, and knew not whence they came; he’d played his hand for forty years, since he was wet behind the ears, and didn’t know the game.
We have a lumber man named Dumm; I asked him, “Whence do shingles come—oh, whither, why and whence?” He said, “I’m always glad to tell the history of things I sell, regardless of expense. The shingle trees,” I hear him say, “are only found at Hudson’s Bay, and they have stately shapes; the shingles, which are long and slim, profusely grow on every limb, in bunches, much like grapes. The natives harvest them in March when they are firm and stiff with starch, and dry them in the sun; then they remove the outer husk—which has a gentle smell of musk—and thrash them, every one. Then they’re sandpapered, piece by piece, and boiled six weeks in walrus grease, and smoked, like any ham; and if there’s any more you’d know, about the way the shingles grow, just ask me—here I am.”
I’ve admiration and respect for one whose knowledge is correct, so I am strong for Dumm; no matter what you ask that guy, he always has a prompt reply—and he makes business hum! Men should be ready with a spiel about the goods in which they deal, excuses won’t suffice; our estimate is always low of men who never seem to know a thing except the price.
A LONGING
I’d like to deal in lumber, and sell, for honest mon, good shingles without number, and scantling by the ton; I’d like to hand out timber to patrons, all day long; the moulding, thin and limber, the pillar firm and strong; for when a man is selling such things, which hit the spot, to build the stately dwelling, the store and humble cot, he feels that he is helping to push the world along, and so we hear him yelping a sweet and joyous song.
I’d like to deal in lumber, for then I’d have a hand in rousing from its slumber, the tired and stagnant land; whene’er I sold a package, and put away the dimes, I’d say, “I’m building trackage, toward the better times!” Pride’s blush would then be mantling my bulging brow upon; and when I sold a scantling I’d help the old world on.
I’d help to build the silo, which fills a pressing need, in which the rural Milo heaps up his juicy feed; I’d help to build the cottage in which the Newlyweds consume their home-made pottage, with sunshine in their heads; I’d help to build the palace where Crœsus counts his chink, and hits the golden chalice when he would have a drink. I’d help to build the cities, where busy people dwell; it is a thousand pities I have no boards to sell!