30 and worked till 9, and never had
studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn't look that way to you from the
top of a skyscraper.
Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who
kept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box
of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow's nest against a corner
of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit, candies,
newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season. When stern
winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself and the
fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the proprietor,
his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one customer.
Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues
and fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and
wanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her.
"I got money saved up, Daisy," was his love song; "and you know how bad
I want you. That store of mine ain't very big, but--"
"Oh, ain't it?" would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one. "Why,
I heard Wanamaker's was trying to get you to sublet part of your floor
space to them for next year.
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