The lightning rod man drove up to a farmhouse and, espying a boy outside, said to the lad, “Is that your father lying there in the shade, sonny?” “No, sir; pa’s away, an’ me and ma is the only ones to home; that’s a dead book agent. D’ye want to sell ma anything?” “Thunder, no!”, and the lightning rod man beat his retreat. That was the joke circulating in our papers in 1880, a time when farm folk were fed up with the drummers who fanned out from the liveries in town to hawk their dubious wares