“Let the shoe and grindstone dealers fill the papers with their ads, let the pharmacists be spielers for their pills and liver pads; let the dry goods merchant merry sing in print his cheerful tunes, let the boatman boom his wherry, let the grocer boost his prunes. But when men are buying shingles they will seek you in your lair, and will need no prose or jingles to induce their going there.”
Thus I heard the mossback speaking as he sadly wagged his ears, and his jaws and lungs were squeaking with the rust of many years. But I knew his talk was twaddle that would fool no modern guys; for it’s true that all men waddle to the stores that advertise.
Why should men who deal in lumber make no bid for larger trade? Why should they sit ’round and slumber, slumber sweetly in the shade? If an ad will bring new patrons to the gas works or the bank, if it sells new gowns to matrons, why won’t it sell a plank? If an ad will bring new buyers to the corner ginseng store, to the man who deals in plyers, why won’t it sell a door?
In our town there is a dealer, selling lumber all the year, and he is the boss appealer to the public’s grateful ear. Every day his little sermon in the paper shows its face; when on building folks determine, they go chasing to his place.
Keep your name before the public, keep your business house in view, and when men would build a steeple, they will surely think of you. Advertising pays, you bet you! They who say “No” are absurd. Never let your town forget you—make your name a household word.
GOING AFTER THEM
Our lumber man, McMellow, is quite a hustling fellow, he’s ever after trade. He says, “I’ve faith in jumping around for biz, and humping—I’ve always found it paid. I think,” remarks McMellow, “that there’s a streak of yellow in any gloomy lad, who spends his time complaining, against the breeching straining, and says that trade is bad.
“My trade is what I make it; and I could blamed soon break it, if I had doleful dumps, but when I find things dragging, I set my brains a-wagging and do some fancy humps.
“Today I heard John Abel intends to build a stable, about eight miles from town; as there was nothing doing, and no excitement brewing, to hold this village down, I thought I’d go and meet him, and to some language treat him, and sell a little bill; and right there I enrolled him a customer and sold him the roof-tree and the sill.
“Keep busy is my motto; I have a small tin auto that scoots along with vim; and when I hear some granger intends to build a manger, I burn the road to him. The people see me scooting, they see me skally-hooting, mile after breezy mile; they say, ‘He is so busy, he fairly makes us dizzy—we kind o’ like his style.’