"'A thousand feet to water!
A thousand miles to wood!
I've quit this blasted country
Quit her! Yes, for good.
The 'hoppers came abuzzin'
But I shooed them all away,
Next blew the hot winds furious;
Still, I had the grit to stay.
There's always something hap'ning;
So, while I've got the pluck--
Think I'll strike another country
And see how runs my luck.
God bless you, boys, I love you.
The drummer is my friend.
When I open up my doors again,
Bet your life, for you I'll send.'

"Wouldn't that cork you? Say, let's get up a game of whist." With this
my friend took a fresh cigar from me, and, whistling, sauntered down
the aisle hunting partners for the game. The long drive, the dust and
the loss of a bill no longer disturbed him.

The man who grieves would better stay off the road. The traveling man
must digest disappointments as he does a plate of blue points, for he
swallows them about as often. One of the severest disappointments for
a road man is to have the pins for a bill all set and then have some
other man get the ball first and knock them down.

A clothing salesman told me this story: