There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavor of life until he has known poverty, love and war. The justness of this reflection commends it to the lover of condensed philosophy. The three condi- tions embrace about all there is in life worth knowing.
A surface thinker might deem that wealth should be added to the list. Not so. When a poor man finds a long-bidden quarter-dollar that has slipped through a rip into his vest lining, be sounds the pleasure of life with a deeper plummet than any millionaire can hope to cast.
It seems that the wise executive power that rules life has thought best to drill man in these three con- ditions; and none may escape all three. In rural places the terms do not mean so much. Poverty is less pinching; love is temperate; war shrinks to con- tests about boundary lines and the neighbors' hens.
It is in the cities that our epigram gains in truth and vigor; and it has remained for one John Hopkins to crowd the experience into a rather small space of time.
The Hopkins flat was like a thousand others.
There was a rubber plant in one window; a flea- bitten terrier sat in the other, wondering when he was to have his day.
John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He worked at $20 per week in a nine-story, red-brick building at either Insurance, Buckle's Hoisting En- gines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated, Waltz Guaranteed in Five Lessons, or Artificial Limbs. It is not for us to wring Mr. Hopkins's avo- cation from these outward signs that be.
Mrs. Hopkins was like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the sedentary disposition, the Sun- day afternoon wanderlust, the draught upon the delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the furor for department store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to the lady in the third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two names over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which she remained glued to the window sill, the vigi- lant avoidance of the instalment man, the tireless patronage of the acoustics of the dumb-waiter shaft - all the attributes of the Gotham flat-dweller were hers.
One moment yet of sententiousness and the story moves.
In the Big City large and sudden things happen.
You round a corner and thrust the rib of your um- brella into the eye of your old friend from Kootenai Falls. You stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in the park - and lo! bandits attack you - you are am- bulanced to the hospital - you marry your nurse; are divorced - get squeezed while short on U. P. S. and D. 0. W. N. S. - stand in the bread line - marry an heiress, take out your laundry and pay your club dues - seemingly all in the wink of an eye. You travel the streets, and a finger beckons to you, a handkerchief is dropped for you, a brick is dropped upon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a table d'hote or your wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork crumbs in wine opened by an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly young- ster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked off.
John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting straight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with satiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of "The Storm " tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hop- kins discoursed droningly of the dinner smells from the flat across the ball. The flea-bitten terrier gave Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating tooth.
Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems may be grafted those essentials of a complete life.
John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.
"Putting a new elevator in at the office," he said, discarding the nominative noun, "and the boss has turned out his whiskers."
"You don't mean it! commented Mrs. Hopkins.
"Mr. Whipples," continued John, "wore his new spring suit down to-day. I liked it fine It's a gray with - " He stopped, suddenly stricken by a need that made itself known to him. "I believe I'll walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar,"he concluded.
John Hopkins took his bat aid picked his way down the musty halls and stairs of the flat-house The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless cries of children playing games con- trolled by mysterious rhythms and phrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely pipe and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes sup- ported lovers in couples who made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they were there to fan.
The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man named Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.
Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his "bunch of spinach, car-fare grade."
This imputation deepened the pessimism of Fresh- mayer; but be set out a brand that came perilously near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase, and lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to make payment, he found not a penny there.
"Say, my friend," he explained, frankly, "I've come out without any change. Hand you that nickel first time I pass."
Joy surged in Freshmayer's heart. Here was cor- roboration of his belief that the world was rotten and man a peripatetic evil. Without a word he rounded the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught upon his customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as a punching-bag for a pessimistic tobacconist. He quickly bestowed upon Freshmayer a Colorado- maduro eye in return for the ardent kick that be received from that dealer in goods for cash only.
The impetus of the enemy's attack forced the Hopkins line back to the sidewalk. There the con- flict raged; the pacific wooden Indian, with his carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street who delighted in carnage pressed round to view the zealous joust.