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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
85
The
life
of
Smith
never
seemed
to
bring
him
to
any
of
those
great
turning-points
that
occurred
in
the
lives
of
the
great.
True,
the
passing
years
brought
some
change
of
fortune.
He
was
moved
up
in
his
dry-goods
establishment
from
the
ribbon
counter
to
the
collar
counter,
from
the
collar
counter
to
the
gents'
panting
counter,
and
from
the
gents'
panting
to
the
gents'
fancy
shirting.
Then,
as
he
grew
aged
and
inefficient,
they
moved
him
down
again
from
the
gents'
fancy
shirting
to
the
gents'
panting,
and
so
on
to
the
ribbon
counter.
And
when
he
grew
quite
old
they
dismissed
him
and
got
a
boy
with
a
four-inch
mouth
and
sandy-coloured
hair,
who
did
all
Smith
could
do
for
half
the
money.
That
was
John
Smith's
mercantile
career:
it
won't
stand
comparison
with
Mr.
Gladstone's,
but
it's
not
unlike
your
own.
Smith
lived
for
five
years
after
this.
His
sons
kept
him.
They
didn't
want
to,
but
they
had
to.
In
his
old
age
the
brightness
of
his
mind
and
his
fund
of
anecdote
were
not
the
delight
of
all
who
dropped
in
to
see
him.
He
told
seven
stories
and
he
knew
six
jokes.
The
stories
were
long
things
all
about
himself,
and
the
jokes
were
about
a
commercial
traveller
and
a
Methodist
minister.
But
nobody
dropped
in
to
see
him,
anyway,
so
it
didn't
matter.
At
sixty-five
Smith
was
taken
ill,
and,
receiving
proper
treatment,
he
died.
There
was
a
tombstone
put
up
over
him,
with
a
hand
pointing
north-north-east.
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