mood of the disconsolate listeners. The first air was repeated, and
the second. This was enough--too much. Quietly the party disbanded,
leaving behind only the man of meditation to listen to the dripping of
the fount.

Not only are there moments of melancholy on the road, but those of
tragedy as well. The field of the traveling man is wide and, while
there bloom in it fragrant blossoms and in it there wax luscious
fruits, the way is set with many thorns.

During the holidays of 1903 I was in a western city. On one of these
days, long to be remembered, I took luncheon with a young man who had
married only a few months before. This trip marked his first
separation from his wife since their wedding. Every day there came a
letter from "Dolly" to "Ned"--some days three. The wife loves her
drummer husband; and the most loved and petted of all the women in the
world is the wife of the man on the road. When they are apart they
long to be together; when they meet they tie again the broken threads
of their life-long honeymoon.

As we sat at the table over our coffee a bell boy brought into my
friend letter "97" for that trip. His wife numbered her letters.
Reading the letter my friend said to me: "Jove, I wish I could be at
home in Chicago to-day, or else, like you, have Dolly along with me.
Just about now I would be going to the matinee with her. She writes me
she is going to get tickets for to-day and take my sister along, as
that is the nearest thing to having me. Gee, how I'd love to be with
her!"

After luncheon we went to our sample rooms, which adjoined. Late in