One fine afternoon I was walking along Fifth Avenue， when I remembered that it was necessary to buy a pair of socks. I turned into the first sock shop that caught my eye， and a boy clerk who could not have been more than seventeen years old came forward. “What can I do for you， sir?” “I wish to buy a pair of socks.” His eyes glowed. There was a note of passion in his voice. “Did you know that you had come into the finest place in the world to buy socks?” I had not been aware of that， as my entrance had been accidental. “Come with me，” said the boy， ecstatically. I followed him to the rear of the shop， and he began to haul down from the shelves box after box， displaying their contents for my delectation.
“Hold on， lad， I am going to buy only one pair!” “I know that，” said he， “but I want you to see how marvelously beautiful these are. Aren’t they wonderful?” There was on his face an expression of solemn and holy rapture， as if he were revealing to me the mysteries of his religion. I became far more interested in him than in the socks. I looked at him in amazement. “My friend，” said I， “if you can keep this up， if this is not merely the enthusiasm that comes from novelty， from having a new job， if you can keep up this zeal and excitement day after day， in ten years you will own every sock in the United States.”
