home, but further than that I could not go. Now, if knowing how to
buy a book is a part of complete living, then, in that blond
presence, I was hopelessly adrift. I had been taught that gambling
is wrong, but there was a situation where I had to take a chance or
show the white feather. Of course, I took the chance and was
relieved of my money by a blond who may or may not have been able to
solve radicals. I shall not give the title of the book I drew in
that lottery, for this is neither the time nor the place for
confessions.

I was a book-agent for one summer, but am trying to live it down.
Hoping to sell a copy of the book whose glowing description I had
memorized, I called at the home of a wealthy farmer. The house was
spacious and embowered in beautiful trees and shrubbery. There was a
noble driveway that led up from the country road, and everything
betokened great prosperity. Once inside the house, I took a survey
of the fittings and could see at once that the farmer had lavished
money upon the home to make it distinctive in the neighborhood as a
suitable background for his wife and daughters. The piano alone must
have cost a small fortune, and it was but one of the many instruments
to be seen. There were carpets, rugs, and curtains in great
profusion, and a bewildering array of all sorts of bric-a-brac. In
time the father asked one of the daughters to play, and she responded
with rather unbecoming alacrity. What she played I shall never know,
but it seemed to me to be a five-finger exercise. Whatever it was,
it was not music. I lost interest at once and so had time to make a
more critical inspection of the decorations. What I saw was a battle
royal. There was the utmost lack of harmony. The rugs fought the
carpets, and both were at the throats of the curtains. Then the
wall-paper joined in the fray, and the din and confusion was torture