It puts spice in our broth and ice in our drink. It puts a
flavor in life that starts an appetite, or, in other words, awakens
ambition. Although the world is full of toilers it would be worse off
were it full of idlers. Good, hard workers find no time to make
mischief. Your anarchists and your breeders of discord are never found
among busy men; they breed, like mosquitoes, out of stagnant places.
It is the idle man that quickens hatred and contention, as it is the
setting hen and not the scratching one that hatches out the eggs.
XLVI.
PAINTING THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
It had been a battle renewed for more years than there are dandelions
just now in the front yard. Various members of the family had declared
from time to time that if the old house was not painted it would fall
to pieces from sheer mortification at its own disreputable appearance.
"Why, you can put your toothpick right through the rotten shingles,"
cried the doctor. "The only way to save it is to paint it."
Now, I have always been the odd sheep of a highly decorous fold. I
have more love for nature than hard good sense, I am told. So I loathe
paint just as I hate surface manners. I want the true grain all the
way through, be it in boards or people. I love the weather stain on an
old house. I love the mossy touches, the lichen grays and the russet
browns that age imparts to the shingles, and I almost feel like
murdering the paint fiend when he comes around every spring, and
transforms some dear old landmark into a gorgeous "Mrs.
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