the pipes
were lowered into place and the surface was cobbled but not yet
sanded, then the tarpot yielded gum for chewing. At any time after
supper a half dozen of us--blacker daubs against the darkness--might
have been seen squatting on the stones, scratching at the tar.
Blackjack, bought at the corner, had not so full a flavor. But one had
to chew forward in the mouth--lightly, lest the tar adhere forever to
the teeth.

And yet I am not entirely in accord with Stevenson in his preference.

And how is it, really, that people fall into their livelihoods? What
circumstance or necessity drives them? Does choice, after all, always
yield to a contrary wind and run for any port? Is hunger always the
helmsman? How many of us, after due appraisal of ourselves, really
choose our own parts in the mighty drama?--first citizen or second,
with our shrill voices for a moment above the crowd--first citizen or
second--brief choristers, except for vanity, against a painted scene.
How runs the rhyme?--rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief; doctor,
lawyer, merchant, chief! And a robustious fellow with great voice, and
lace and sword, strutting forward near the lights.

Meditating thus, I frequently poke about the city in the end of
afternoon "when the mind of your man of letters requires some
relaxation." I peer into shop windows, not so much for the wares
displayed as for glimpses of the men and women engaged in their
disposal. I watch laborers trudging home with the tired clink of their
implements and pails. I gaze into cellarways where tailor and cobbler
sit bent upon their work--needle and peg, their world--and through
fouled windows into workrooms, to learn which livelihoods yield the
truest happiness. For it is, on the whole, a whistling rather than a
grieving world, and like little shouts among the hills is laughter
echoed in the heart.

I can well understand how one can become a baker or even a small
grocer with a pencil behind his ear. I could myself honestly recommend
an apple--an astrachan for sauces--or, in the season, offer asparagus
with something akin to enthusiasm. Cranberries, too, must be an
agreeable consort of the autumn months when the air turns frosty. I
would own a cat with a dusty nose to rub along the barrels and sleep
beneath the stove. I would carry dried meats in stock were it only for
the electric slicing machine. And whole cheeses! Or to a man of
romantic mind an old brass shop may have its lure. To one