CLASSY HOMES
The barber who is bald as blazes can’t sell me tonic for my hair, and all his fine and ringing phrases strike me as merely heated air. The tailor who is looking shabby can’t sell me clothes, howe’er he tries; his eloquence seems vain and flabby, his course of conduct is not wise.
The jeweler, whose watch is gaining, or losing, seven hours a day, might spend a week or two explaining his wondrous skill—I’d go my way.
If I were selling battle-axes, I’d see my own the best in town, as slick and clean and smooth as wax is, a thing of fair and wide renown.
One lumber man is always telling what kind of homes the folks should build, and he lives in a rocky dwelling, with bargain counter fixtures filled. And men who listen to his spieling remark, “Why don’t you build, yourself? Your home is punk, from floor to ceiling, from kitchen sink to pantry shelf.”
The lumber man, more than all others, should show his faith in what he sells, should demonstrate, to men and brothers, that his own home is wearing bells. Then he can say to John and Alice, who think of putting up a home, “Come out and see my little palace, examine it, from porch to dome. Of goodly points it has a number, I think it good and up to date; it shows what one can do with lumber, if he has got his head on straight.”
The workman who is always fussing can’t ply for me the monkey wrench; the preacher who is always cussing can’t lead me to the mourner’s bench.
The lumberman whose home is rocky can’t tell me what I ought to build; though he be eloquent and talky, the force of all he says is killed.