Oeuvres Complètes de Frédéric Bastiat, tome 1
fondément religieux qui se mêle, dans les écrits de Bastiat, à la fière doctrine du progrès par la liberté .
Nous n’avons pas la prétention de chercher quelle put être la mise de fonds que chacun des deux associés d’idées versa ainsi à la masse commune. Nous pensons que de part et d’autre l’apport fut considérable. Le seul ouvrage de M. Coudroy que nous connaissions, sa brochure sur le duel , nous a laissé une haute opinion de son talent, et l’on sait que Bastiat a eu un moment la pensée de lui léguer à finir le second volume de ses Harmonies . Il semblerait pourtant que dans l’association, l’un apportait plus particulièrement l’esprit d’entreprise et d’initiative, l’autre l’élément de suite et de continuité. Bastiat avait le travail capricieux, comme les natures artistes; il procédait par intuitions soudaines, et, apr&e
The Man of Letters as a Man of Business
ent of the United States gets for doing far less work of a
much more perishable sort. If the man of letters were wholly a
business man this is what would happen; he would make his forty
or fifty thousand dollars a year, and be able to consort with
bank presidents, and railroad officials, and rich tradesmen, and
other flowers of our plutocracy on equal terms. But,
unfortunately, from a business point of view, he is also an
artist, and the very qualities that enable him to delight the
public disable him from delighting it uninterruptedly. “No rose
blooms right along,” as the English boys at Oxford made an
American collegian say in a theme which they imagined for him in
his national parlance; and the man of letters, as an artist, is
apt to have times and seasons when he cannot blossom. Very often
it shall happen that his mind will lie fallow between novels or
stories for weeks and months at a stretch; when the suggestions
of the friendly editor shall fail to fruit in the essays or
articles desired; when the
Raising P.V. Squabs for Profit
ll in summer, but not in winter; some ate too much for the number of squabs produced; some would breed one large squab and the other very thin; and some would breed nice twelve-pound squabs, but we could not get a proportionately high price for them to warrant the extra food required and extra time required for them to mature. After seven years of experimenting, we believe we have now the best utility bird in the country, namely the P. V. Special Homer. These birds breed squabs the marketable size: eight, nine and ten pounds to the dozen. Less than 15 per cent. ran under eight pounds to the dozen last year. They breed plump, broad-breasted squabs and do not eat more than the average homer. The squabs are ready for market in four weeks from the time hatched, and if kept for breeding, they commence mating in three months; being one of the quickest birds to mature.
A small start with good birds is the foundation of success. A fine flock can be built up from a few good pairs, but poor stock will soon disco
Lace Curtain Cleaning
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Young Wallingford
he dryly observed. “He’s in a business where he sees nothing but money all day long. He’s a highly trusted bank clerk.”
Instead of glancing with interest at Mr. Gilman, the black-eyed young man sharply scrutinized Mr. Wix. Then he smiled.
“And what line are you in?” he finally asked of Wix.
“I’ve been in everything,” confessed that joyous young gentleman with a chuckle, “and stayed in nothing. Just now, I’m studying law.”
“Doing nothing on the side?”
“Not a thing.”
“He can’t save any money to go into anything else,” laughed Gilman, momentarily awakened into a surprising semblance of life. “Every time he gets fifty dollars he goes out of town to buy a fancy meal.”
“You were born for easy money,” the black-eyed one advised Wix. “It’s that sort of a lip that drives us all into the shearing business.”
Wix shook his head.
“Not me,” said he. “The law books prove that easy money costs too much.”
The black-eyed one shrugged his shoulders.
Wealth of the World’s Waste Places and Oceania
n inhospitable region, scanty in both animal and vegetable life, where climatic conditions call for heroic daring on the part of those who would search out its hidden mysteries; it is a land of death-dealing mirages, yet containing untold wealth for the miner, and likewise for the husbandman who can irrigate the fallow parched surface.
[Illustration: Mohave Desert, California. Buzzards’ Roost]
The bold prospector has unearthed in many places of southern Nevada gold-bearing rock assaying thousands of dollars to the ton, the result being the building up of cities and towns and the construction of connecting railroads to meet the demands of the growing commerce. Until recently, silver was the principal metal sought and found in the State of Nevada; but now gold is king, and his throne has been shifted from one desert camp to another, each laying claim to his abundant presence, while new claimants are ever bringing new treasures into light.
The two most valuable deposits of the precious metal
Hodge and His Masters
hus they would have been independent of the seasons. Look, again, at the hay crop; how many thousand tons of hay had been wasted because men would not believe that anything would answer which had not been done by their forefathers! The hay might have been saved by three distinct methods. The grass might have been piled against hurdles or light frame-work and so dried by the wind; it might have been pitted in the earth and preserved still green; or it might have been dried by machinery and the hot blast. A gentleman had invented a machine, the utility of which had been demonstrated beyond all doubt. But no; farmers folded their hands and watched their hay rotting.
As for the wheat crop, how could they expect a wheat crop? They had not cleaned the soil–there were horse-hoes, and every species of contrivances for the purpose; but they would not use them. They had not ploughed deeply: they had merely scratched the surface as if with a pin. How could the thin upper crust of the earth–the mere rind three i
The War After the War
passed, and with it much of the dark night that enshrouded the Allies’ arms. On land and sea rained the first blows of the great assaults that were to make a summer of content for the Entente cause. Its arsenals teemed with shells; its men were fit; victory, however distant, seemed at last assured. The time had come to prepare a new kind of drive–the combined attack upon enemy trade and any other that happened to be in the way.
Thus it came about that on a brilliant sun-lit day last June twoscore men sat round a long table in a stately room of a palace that overlooked the Seine, in Paris. Eminent lawmakers–Hughes, of Australia, among them–were there aplenty; but few practical business men.
On the walls hung the trade maps of the world; spread before them were the red-dotted diagrams that showed the water highways where traffic flowed in happier and serener days. For coming generations of business everywhere it was a fateful meeting because the now famous Economic Conference of the Allies was
The Pit
nger sister
Page, and their aunt–Aunt Wess’–were still waiting for the rest of
the theatre-party to appear. A great, slow-moving press of men and
women in evening dress filled the vestibule from one wall to
another. A confused murmur of talk and the shuffling of many feet
arose on all sides, while from time to time, when the outside and
inside doors of the entrance chanced to be open simultaneously, a
sudden draught of air gushed in, damp, glacial, and edged with the
penetrating keenness of a Chicago evening at the end of February.
The Italian Grand Opera Company gave one of the most popular pieces
of its repertoire on that particular night, and the Cresslers had
invited the two sisters and their aunt to share their box with them.
It had been arranged that the party should assemble in the
Auditorium vestibule at a quarter of eight; but by now the quarter
was gone and the Cresslers still failed to arrive.
“I don’t see,” murmured Laura anxiously for the last time, “what can
be keeping them. Are you sure
The Itching Palm
restaurant where the employer has thus shifted the cost of waiter hire to the shoulders of the public, the patron who conscientiously objects to tipping has not the slightest chance in the world of a square deal in competition with the patron who pays tribute, although he pays as much for the food.
A waiter, knowing that his compensation depends upon what he can work out of his patron, employs every art to stimulate the tipping propensity, from subtle flattery to out-right bull-dozing. He weaves a spell of obligation around a patron as tangible, if invisible, as the web a spider weaves around a fly. He plays as consciously upon the patron’s fear of social usage as the musician in the alcove plays upon his violin.
This is a particularly bad ethical and economic situation from any viewpoint. The patron, getting only one service, pays two persons for it–the employer and the employee. The payment to the employer is fixed, but to the employee it is dependent upon the whim of the patron. To make this
