Methinks that clerics, the whole world through, will do much as their
bosses do, for which they're not to blame; for emulation is a part, in
office, drawing room and mart, of this weird human game.

I often go to Jimpson's store; I blow in twice a day or more to buy my
prunes and things. Old Jimpson is a joyous jay; he hustles around the
livelong day, he whistles and he sings. I like to watch the blamed old
chump; I like to see him on the jump, he is so full of steam; and all
his clerks have caught his style; they hump around with cheerful smile,
and do not loaf or dream.

When I blow into Jimpson's lair they all seem glad to see me there and
anxious for my trade; they give me brisk attention then, and sing the
chorus, "Come again!" when from the shop I fade.

Jim Clinker has another store. Jim Clinker's head seem always sore, he
grumbles and he scowls; and all his clerks have caught that trick; they
gloom around the store like sick or broken-hearted owls. When I go in
to buy some tea, a languid salesman waits on me as though it were a
crime to rouse him from his sour repose, his brooding over secret woes,
and occupy his time.

If Clinker's clerks to Jimpson went, they soon would shake their
discontent, and carol like the birds; if Jimpson's clerks for Clinker
toiled their optimism would be spoiled; they'd hand out doleful words.

And so I say, and say some more, that all the salesmen in a store will
emulate their boss; if he is sour on all the works, you may be sure his
string of clerks will be a total loss.