The Persistent Peddler of Front Street

A long lady, having a sweet smile and winning ways, called upon Deniison Blanchard yesterday to sell them some 'hair novelty' just out in the hands of agents. She had prepared a five-minute talk. He uncovered his bald head and asked: 'What is there to do with it?' 'The hair will grow to it,' she said. 'My wife is bald, poor soul.' 'Then your daughter.' 'I have no daughters, and the only son I have went into the ministry, where he gets his hair pulled too much. I believe this brush wouldn't help a new growth of hair on your scalp,' she muttered, unwilling to let him off. 'Don't want any hair there,' he replied. 'I never feel happy since I had the bell-fever. 'Well, don't ever brush your scalp.' 'Sir, I have to, for at least once per year, and the rest of the time it must get along the best it can. I am in great need of money,' she remarked as she wound around the shop. 'I am too,' he replied, 'but I haven't seen but two dollars in the last two weeks.' 'It would be an act of charity to buy me,' she pleaded. 'I prefer to charity, no, I cannot give you a shilling, I cannot to any object for thirty years.' 'Your old hair won't fight the brush.' 'I shall never brush my head until I brush all the women.' 'You don't think you could use it?' she asked as she rose up. 'Yes, I could take it and brush my hog-ear with it clean back to his tail, and rub his tail clean over his nose, or to curry the mill, or repair my wheelbarrow with it, but I said no, and I shall stick to it.'