LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 709, 27 September 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A THERMOMETER MAN IN DETROIT. He was a wayworn man from the East, and he had thirty-seven thermometers in a basket on his arm. After standing on the street corners for two or three hours without making a single sale, he started from the eastern part of the city, hoping to do better among the private houses. He seemed to gain confidence from the cheerful look of the dwellings, and he bore himself like a banker as he ascended the steps and pulled a doorbell. ‘ Nothing for the poor,’ said the lady, as she opened the door. *I am not soliciting for the poor—l am selling themometers,' he said, in a balmy voice. ‘ Dont want any—bought out stock in the fall,’ she said, drawing in her head. ‘ I said thermometers, madam,’he called, in a despairing voice. ‘ I know it; but we have got all the vegetables that we can use,’ she called back, and the door struck his toes. Going in the saloon on the corner the man addressed the proprietor with a sweet smile, asking * Would you like a thermometer to-day ? ’ ‘ Py der bushel ? ’ inquired the saloonist. ‘No —a thermometer —a little instrument for telling you when it is cold or warm. 5 ‘ Any music-box in it ? ’ inquired the saloonist. ‘No; it records the weather.’ ‘ What wedder ? ’ * Why, the weather we have every day in the year. When it is warm this little tube runs up ; when it is cold it sinks down. ’ ‘ Umph ! Yen it ish warm I dakes my coat off; ven it is gold I put more goal in the stoaf. Go sell dat to some schmall boy as knows nocldings ! ’ The thermometer man entered a carpetweaver’s, and a bow-backed man nodded kindly, and cordially welcomed him. ‘ Accurate thermometers for only twentyfive cents,’ said the pedlar, as .he held one up. ‘ New thing ? ’ said the weaver, as he took ene in his hand. ‘We have had thermometers for many years. People have come to consider them a household necessity.’ ‘Zero —Zero? Who was Zero ? asked the weaver, reading the word behind the glass. The thermometer-man explained, and the weaver, after trying to get his thmnb-nail under the glass, asked—- ‘ Where does the blamed thing open ? ’ ‘ Thermometers are not made to open, my friend,’ was the reply. ‘ Well, I don’t want no thermometer around me that won’t open, 5 growled the man. ‘ I thought it was a new kind of stove-handle when you came in, or I shouldn’t have looked at it. ’ The thermometer-man next tried a dwel-ling-house. In answer to his ring the door was instantly and swiftly opened by a redfaced woman, who hit him with a club, and cried out—- ‘ I’ll learn you, you young villain ! 5 She apologised, and explained that several bad boys had been ringing the door-bell, and he forgave her, and said : ‘ I have some accurate and handsome thermometers here. Perhaps you—- ‘ We never have hash for breakfast,’ she interrupted. ‘My husband detests hash, so I don’t want to buy.’ ‘ Hash 1’ a thermometer has nothing to do with hash 1’ he exclaimed.

‘ Well. I can’t help that,’ she replied, slowly closing the door. ‘We haven’t any lamps to mend, and you shouldn’t track mud on the steps that way.’ There was a portly man crossing the street and the thermometer man beckoned to him, halted him, and, when he got near enough, asked — ‘ Can I sell you an accurate thermometer to-day V ‘ What do I want with a thermometer ?’ exclaimed the portly man, raising his voice a Peg- ‘ Why, to note the weather.’ ‘ You blamed idiot! Do you suppose I run the weather ? roared the fat man, growing purple in the face. ‘ But you want to know when it is hot or cold, don’t you ?’ ‘ Am I such an old fool that I don’t know when it’s summer and when it’s winter ?’ shrieked the fat man. ■ * We all know, of course,’ replied the thermometer man; * but every respectable family has a thermometer nowadays.' ‘ They have, eh ! I never had one, nor wouldn’t have one, and do you dare to tell me that I ain’t respectable V screamed old portly. * I didn’t mean ’ * Yes, you did, and you have made me miss the car, and I’ll cane you !’ The thermometer man waded across the muddy street and made his escape, and at dusk last night was backed up against the Solniers’ Monumedt, his basket between his feet, and was squinting sadly at the clock on the City-hall tower.