He was born
on that homestead, was brought up there, and
had gone back and forth rubbing the stone with
his sleeve until it reflected his countenance, and
seemed to say, ``Here is a hundred thousand
dollars right down here just for the taking.''
But he would not take it. It was in a home in
Newburyport, Massachusetts, and there was no
silver there, all away off--well, I don't know where,
and he did not, but somewhere else, and he was
a professor of mineralogy.
My friends, that mistake is very universally
made, and why should we even smile at him. I
often wonder what has become of him. I do not
know at all, but I will tell you what I ``guess''
as a Yankee. I guess that he sits out there by his
fireside to-night with his friends gathered around
him, and he is saying to them something like this:
``Do you know that man Conwell who lives in
Philadelphia?'' ``Oh yes, I have heard of him.''
``Do you know that man Jones that lives in
Philadelphia?'' ``Yes, I have heard of him, too.''
Then he begins to laugh, and shakes his sides
and says to his friends, ``Well, they have done
just the same thing I did, precisely''--and that
spoils the whole joke, for you and I have done
the same thing he did, and while we sit here and
laugh at him he has a better right to sit out there
and laugh at us.
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