“’Last year a colt of yours won a classic event of the turf.  How much finer it would be if you had some boys in training for the sublime contests of life, an’ it wouldn’t cost half so much.  You know, there are plenty of homeless boys who need your help.  Wouldn’t it pay better to develop a Henry M. Stanley—­once a homeless orphan—­than a Salvator or an Ormonde or a Rayon d’Or?’

“‘Pound away,’ said Bill.  ‘Nail an’ rivet me to the cross.  I haven’t a word to say, except this:  What in the devil do ye want me to do?’

“‘Well, ye might help to redeem New England,’ I said.  ’The Yankee blood is runnin’ out, an’ it’s a pity.  To-day the Yankees are almost a childless race.  Do ye know the reason?’

“He shook his head.

“‘It costs so much to live,’ I says.  ’We can’t afford children.  To begin with, the boys an’ girls don’t marry so young.  They can’t stand the expense.  They’re all keepin’ up with Lizzie, but on the wrong road.  The girls are worse than the boys.  They go out o’ the private school an’ beat the bush for a husband.  At first they hope to drive out a duke or an earl; by-an’-by they’re willin’ to take a common millionaire; at last they conclude that if they can’t get a stag they’ll take a rabbit.  Then we learn that they’re engaged to a young man, an’ are goin’ to marry as soon as he can afford it.  He wears himself out in the struggle, an’ is apt to be a nervous wreck before the day arrives.  They are nearin’ or past thirty when he decides that with economy an’ no children they can afford to maintain a home.  The bells ring, the lovely strains from “Lohengrin” fill the grand, new house o’ God, an’ overflow into the quiet streets o’ the village, an’ we hear in them what Wagner never thought of—­the joyful death-march of a race.  Think of it, Bill, this old earth is growin’ too costly for the use o’ man.  We prefer autos an’ diamonds an’ knick-knacks!  Life has become a kind of a circus where only the favored can pay the price of admission, an’ here in America, where about all the great men we have had were bred in cabins, an’ everything worth a fish-hook came out o’ poverty!  You have it in your power to hasten the end o’ this wickedness,’ I said.  ’For one thing, you can make the middleman let go of our throats in this community.  Near here are hundreds of acres o’ land goin’ to waste.  Buy it an’ make it produce—­wool, meat, flax, grains, an’ vegetables.  Start a market an’ a small factory here, an’ satisfy yourself as to what is a just price for the necessaries of life.  If the tradesmen are overchargin’ us, they’ll have to reduce prices.  Put your brain an’ money into it; make it a business.  At least, you’ll demonstrate what it ought to cost to live here in New England.  If it’s so much that the average Yankee can’t afford it by honest work—­if we must all be lawyers or bankers or brokers or graspin’ middle-men in order to live—­let’s start a big Asylum for the Upright, an’ give ’em a chance to die comfortably.  But it isn’t so.  I can raise potatoes right here for thirty cents a bushel, as good as those you pay forty cents a peck for at Sam Henshaw’s.  You’ll set an example of inestimable value in this republic of ours.  Dan has begun the good work, an’ demonstrated that it will pay.’