IN WHICH THE PURSUIT OF LIZZIE BECOMES HIGHLY SERIOUS

Dan had been out of town, an\' immediately on his return he came to my office.

"\'How\'s business?\' I asked.

"\'Well, the ham war was a little hard on us, but we\'re picking up,\' says he. \'They\'re still selling hams way below a decent price over at Henshaw\'s. I don\'t see how they can do it.\'

"\'I do,\' I says.

"\'Please explain," says Dan.

"\'Don\'t you know that Lizzie was buyin\' most o\' those hams that you sold way below the wholesale price, an\' that she\'s now makin\' a good profit on \'em?\' I says.

"\'Great Scott!\' Dan exclaimed, as he sank in a chair.

"\'The fact is, Dan, the only way to keep up with that girl is to marry her,\' says I. \'Get busy. If you don\'t somebody else will. Put a mortgage on her an\' foreclose it as soon as possible. As a floatin\' asset Lizzie is dangerous.\'

"Dan picked up his hat an\' started for the door.

"\'Tell her she must do business or you\'ll cut the price of
Pettigrews,\' I suggested.

"\'Good idea!\' he answered, as he went away.

"Meanwhile Mr. an\' Mrs. Bill Warburton were hot on the trail of
Lizzie.

"Bill came to me one day an\' said: \'Those babies have solved the problem; my wife is happy and in excellent health. She sleeps an\' eats as well as ever, an\' her face has a new look—you have observed it?\'

"\'Certainly, Bill, an\' you\'re goin\' to hear some rather chesty an\' superior talk. I saw what was the matter long ago—she was motor-sick, an\' tiara-sick, an\' dog-sick, an\' horse-sick. She was sick of idleness an\' rich food an\' adulation. She has discovered that there are only three real luxuries—work, children, motherhood—that to shirk responsibility is to forfeit happiness. I have been a little disappointed in you, Bill. Your father was a minister; he had the love of men in his soul. You seem to have taken to dogs an\' horses with an affection almost brotherly. I don\'t blame you so much. When men get rich they naturally achieve a passion for the things that money will buy. They think they\'ve got to improve the breed o\' dogs an\' horses, an\' they\'re apt to forget the breed o\' men. You\'ve been pursuin\' Happiness with dogs, horses, an\' motor-cars. You never can catch her in that way—never. Don\'t you remember, Bill, that in the old days we didn\'t pursue Happiness? Why, Happiness pursued us an\' generally caught us. Some days she didn\'t succeed until we were all tired out, an\' then she led us away into the wonderful land o\' dreams, an\' it was like heaven. You never get Happiness by pursuin\' her—that\'s one dead sure thing. Happiness is never captured. She comes unbidden or not at all. She travels only in one path, an\' you haven\'t found it. Bill, we\'ve strayed a little. Let\'s try to locate the trail o\' Happiness. I believe we\'re gettin\' near it.

"\'Last year a colt of yours won a classic event of the turf. How much finer it would be if you had some boys in training for the sublime contests of life, an\' it wouldn\'t cost half so much. You know, there are plenty of homeless boys who need your help. Wouldn\'t it pay better to develop a Henry M. Stanley—once a homeless orphan—than a Salvator or an Ormonde or a Rayon d\'Or?\'

"\'Pound away,\' said Bill. \'Nail an\' rivet me to the cross. I haven\'t a word to say, except this: What in the devil do ye want me to do?\'

"\'Well, ye might help to redeem New England,\' I said. \'The Yankee blood is runnin\' out, an\' it\'s a pity. To-day the Yankees are almost a childless race. Do ye know the reason?\'

"He shook his head.

"\'It costs so much to live,\' I says. \'We can\'t afford children. To begin with, the boys an\' girls don\'t marry so young. They can\'t stand the expense. They\'re all keepin\' up with Lizzie, but on the wrong road. The girls are worse than the boys. They go out o\' the private school an\' beat the bush for a husband. At first they hope to drive out a duke or an earl; by-an\'-by they\'re willin\' to take a common millionaire; at last they conclude that if they can\'t get a stag they\'ll take a rabbit. Then we learn that they\'re engaged to a young man, an\' are goin\' to marry as soon as he can afford it. He wears himself out in the struggle, an\' is apt to be a nervous wreck before the day arrives. They are nearin\' or past thirty when he decides that with economy an\' no children they can afford to maintain a home. The bells ring, the lovely strains from "Lohengrin" fill the grand, new house o\' God, an\' overflow into the quiet streets o\' the village, an\' we hear in them what Wagner never thought of—the joyful death-march of a race. Think of it, Bill, this old earth is growin\' too costly for the use o\' man. We prefer autos an\' diamonds an\' knick-knacks! Life has become a kind of a circus where only the favored can pay the price of admission, an\' here in America, where about all the great men we have had were bred in cabins, an\' everything worth a fish-hook came out o\' poverty! You have it in your power to hasten the end o\' this wickedness,\' I said. \'For one thing, you can make the middleman let go of our throats in this community. Near here are hundreds of acres o\' land goin\' to waste. Buy it an\' make it produce—wool, meat, flax, grains, an\' vegetables. Start a market an\' a small factory here, an\' satisfy yourself as to what is a just price for the necessaries of life. If the tradesmen are overchargin\' us, they\'ll have to reduce prices. Put your brain an\' money into it; make it a business. At least, you\'ll demonstrate what it ought to cost to live here in New England. If it\'s so much that the average Yankee can\'t afford it by honest work—if we must all be lawyers or bankers or brokers or graspin\' middle-men in order to live—let\'s start a big Asylum for the Upright, an\' give \'em a chance to die comfortably. But it isn\'t so. I can raise potatoes right here for thirty cents a bushel, as good as those you pay forty cents a peck for at Sam Henshaw\'s. You\'ll set an example of inestimable value in this republic of ours. Dan has begun the good work, an\' demonstrated that it will pay.\'

"\'It\'s a good idea—I\'m with you,\' he said. \'If we can get the boys an\' girls to marry while the bloom is on the rye, it\'s worth while, an\' I wouldn\'t wonder if indirectly we\'d increase the crop of Yankees an\' the yield of happiness to the acre.\'

"\'Bill, you\'re a good fellow,\' I said. \'You only need to be reminded of your duty—you\'re like many another man.\'

"\'And I\'ll think you the best fellow in the world if you\'ll let us keep those kids. We enjoy them. We\'ve been having a lot of fun lately.\'

"\'I can\'t do that,\' I said, \'but I\'ll keep \'em here until we can get some more. There are thousands of them as beautiful, as friendless, as promising as these were.\'

"\'I wish you could let us have these,\' he urged. \'We wouldn\'t adopt them, probably, but we\'d do our best for them—our very best.\'

"\'I can\'t,\' I answered.

"\'Why?\'

"\'Because they\'ve got hold of my old heart—that\'s why. I hadn\'t looked for that, ............