WHEN the north wind roars at your cottage doors and batters the window panes, and the cold’s so fierce that it seems to pierce right into your bones and veins, then it’s sweet to sit by the fire and knit, and think, while the needles clank, of the iron men, of the shining yen, you have in the village bank! When you’ve lost your job and misfortunes rob your face of its wonted grin, when the money goes for your grub and clothes, though there’s nothing coming in; when the fates are rough and they kick and cuff and give you a frequent spank, how sweet to think of the bunch of chink you have in the village bank! When you’re gray and old and your feet are cold, and the night is drawing on; when you’re tired and weak and your joints all creak, and the strength of youth is gone; when you watch and wait at the sunset gate for the boatman grim and lank, oh, it’s nice to know there’s a roll of dough all safe in the village bank! The worst, my friend, that the fates can send, is softened for you and yours if you have the price, have the coin on ice—the best of all earthly cures; oh, a healthy wad is your staff and rod when the luck seems tough and rank; your consolers then are the iron men you have in the village bank!
