ake credit to
ourselves, that when we are unhappy we say it is the fault of this woman
or that man. Especially do women attribute their misery to That Man.

And often the trouble is he has given her too much for nothing.

This truth is a reversible, back-action one, well lubricated by use,
working both ways--as the case may be.

Nobody but a beggar has really definite ideas concerning his rights.
People who give much--who love much--do not haggle.

That form of affection which drives sharp bargains and makes demands,
gets a check on the bank in which there is no balance.

There is nothing so costly as something you get for nothing.

My friend Tom Lowry, Magnate in Ordinary, of Minneapolis and the east
side of Wall Street, has recently had a little experience that proves
my point.

A sturdy beggar-man, a specimen of decayed gentility, once called on
Tammas with a hard-luck story and a Family Bible, and asked for a small
loan on the Good Book.

To be compelled to soak the Family Bible would surely melt the heart of
gneiss!

Tom was melted.

Tom made the loan but refused the collateral, stating he had no use for
it.

Which was God's truth for once.

In a few weeks the man came back, and tried to tell Tom his hard-luck
story concerning the Cold Ingratitude of a Cruel World.

Tom said, "Spare me the slow music and the recital--I have troubles of
my own. I need mirth and good cheer--take this dollar, and peace be
with you."

"Peace be multiplied unto thee," said the beggar, and departed. The
next month the man returned, and began to tell Tom a tale of Cruelty,
Injustice and Ingratitude.

Tom was riled--he had his magnate business to attend to, and he made a
remark in italics. The beggar said, "Mr. Lowry, if you had your business
a little better systematized, I would not have to trouble you
personally--why don't you just speak to your cashier?" And the great
man, who once took a party of friends out for a tally-ho ride, and
through mental habit collected five cents from each guest, was so
pleased at the thought of relief that he pressed the buzzer. The cashier
came, and Tom said, "Put this man Grabheimer on your pay-roll, give him
two dollars now and the same the first of every month."

Then turning to the beggar-man, Tom said, "Now get out of here--hurry,
vamose, hike--and be damned to you!"

"The same to you and many of them," said His Effluvia politely, and
withdrew.

All this happened two years ago