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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 351 pages of information about Babbit.

This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the grass parking between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk.  Babbitt stopped his car and leaned out to shout “Mornin’!” Littlefield lumbered over and stood with one foot up on the running-board.

“Fine morning,” said Babbitt, lighting—­illegally early—­his second cigar of the day.

“Yes, it’s a mighty fine morning,” said Littlefield.

“Spring coming along fast now.”

“Yes, it’s real spring now, all right,” said Littlefield.

“Still cold nights, though.  Had to have a couple blankets, on the sleeping-porch last night.”

“Yes, it wasn’t any too warm last night,” said Littlefield.

“But I don’t anticipate we’ll have any more real cold weather now.”

“No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana, yesterday,” said the Scholar, “and you remember the blizzard they had out West three days ago—­thirty inches of snow at Greeley, Colorado—­and two years ago we had a snow-squall right here in Zenith on the twenty-fifth of April.”

“Is that a fact!  Say, old man, what do you think about the Republican candidate?  Who’ll they nominate for president?  Don’t you think it’s about time we had a real business administration?”

“In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs.  What we need is—­a business administration!” said Littlefield.

“I’m glad to hear you say that!  I certainly am glad to hear you say that!  I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, with all your associations with colleges and so on, and I’m glad you feel that way.  What the country needs—­just at this present juncture—­is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good—­sound economical—­business—­administration, that will give us a chance to have something like a decent turnover.”

“Yes.  It isn’t generally realized that even in China the schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of course you can see what that implies.”

“Is that a fact!  Well, well!” breathed Babbitt, feeling much calmer, and much happier about the way things were going in the world.  “Well, it’s been nice to stop and parleyvoo a second.  Guess I’ll have to get down to the office now and sting a few clients.  Well, so long, old man.  See you tonight.  So long.”

II

They had labored, these solid citizens.  Twenty years before, the hill on which Floral Heights was spread, with its bright roofs and immaculate turf and amazing comfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growth elms and oaks and maples.  Along the precise streets were still a few wooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard.  It was brilliant to-day; the apple boughs were lit with fresh leaves like torches of green fire.  The first white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully, and robins clamored.

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