That song told her that she had reached once again the point that comes to everyone, times without number, the point that separates the life of conquest from the life of defeat, the life of cowardice from the life of courage. She was at the crossroads, and she took the turning to the right. The bird's song marked for her the end of discouragement.
"I can sing, as well as the bird," she said to herself. And at once she began to make plans for her charges.
Everywhere there are people who feel that the odds are against them, that difficulties in the way are unsurmountable, that it is useless to make further effort to conquer. The author of "The Book of Courage" knows by experience how they feel, and he longs to send to them a message of cheer and death-to-the-blues, a call to go on to the better things that wait for those who face life in the spirit of the gallant General Petain, whose watchword, "They shall not pass!" put courage into his men and hope into the hearts of millions all over the world.
"Courage!" is the call to these. "Courage" is likewise the word to those who are already struggling in the conquering spirit of Sir Walter Scott who, when both domestic calamity and financial misfortune came, said to a comforter, "The blowing off of my hat on a stormy day has given me more weariness," who called adversity "a tonic and a bracer."
The world needs courage—the high courage that shows itself in a life of daily struggle and conquest, that smiles at obstacles and laughs at difficulties.
How is the needed courage to be secured? What are the springs of courage? What are some of the results of courage? These are questions "The Book of Courage" seeks to answer by telling of men and women who have become courageous.
Glorious provision has been made by the Inspirer of men for giving courage to all, no matter what their difficulties or their hardships. Among His provisions are home and friends, work and service, will and conscience, the world with all its beauty, and Himself as Companion and Friend.
Thus we are left absolutely without excuse when we are tempted to let down the bars to worry and gloom and discouragement.
Keep up the bars! Don't let the enemies of peace and progress pass! And always,
Philadelphia, 1920
Alexander the Great conquered most of the world he knew, but he permitted his lower nature to conquer his better self, and he died a disappointed, defeated man.
Before the days of Alexander there was a man named Nehemiah from whom the world-conqueror might have learned a few secrets. He was a poor exile in the service of a foreign ruler. That ruler sent him down to Jerusalem, the capital city of his own home land, with instructions to govern the people there. Now, in those days, it was a common thing for governors of cities to plunder the people unfortunate enough to be in their charge. Thus Nehemiah would have had ample precedent to fill his own coffers by injustice, profiteering and worse: he had the power. Possibly he was tempted to do something of the sort. But he had the courage to shut up tight all baser passions, and then to sit firmly on the lid. In the brief record of his service he referred to some of the self-seeking governors, and told of their rascally deeds. Then he added the significant words, "So did not I."
That was certainly courage—the courage of self-conquest.
As a young man Ulysses S. Grant was a brave soldier, but he nearly wrecked his life because of weak yielding to his appetite. His real career began only with self-conquest. When he found the courage to fight himself—and not until then—he became ready for the marvelous life of high courage that never faltered when he was misunderstood by associates and maligned by enemies, that pressed steadily onward, in the face of biting disease, until work was done, until honor was satisfied.
A little girl four years old came trembling to her mother and asked for pencil and paper. Then, teeth set and eyes flashing, she pounced on the paper and began to make all sorts of vicious marks. Asked what she was doing, she said she was writing a letter to a sister who had offended her by an act that had been misunderstood. "She is not a nice girl," the little critic said, "and I'm telling her so. I don't like her any more, and I'm saying that." As she wrote her hand trembled; she was carried away by her unpleasant emotion. After a few moments, unable to go on with her self-appointed task, she flung herself, sobbing, into her mother's arms and for half an hour she could not control herself.
The sight was pitiful. But far more pitiful is the spectacle of one old enough to know better who yields to vexation and hatred, thereby not only making himself disagreeable, but robbing himself of power to perform the duties of the hour. For there is nothing so exhausting as uncontrolled emotion. There is so much for each one of us to do, and every ounce of strength is needed by those who would play their part in the world. Then what spendthrift folly it is to waste needed power on emotion that is disquieting, disagreeable and disgraceful!
That lesson was never impressed more forcibly than by a French officer of whom a visitor from America asked, "Did I understand that you had lost three sons?" "Yes, sir, and two brothers," was the proud reply. "How you must hate the Boche," remarked a bystander. "No, no," was the instant reply, "not hate; just pity, sir; pity, but not hate. Hate, you know, is an excessive emotion, sir; and no one can do effective work if he spends his vitality in an excess of emotion. No," he concluded, "we cannot hate; we cannot work if we burn up ourselves inside. Pity, sir; pity. 'They know not what they do.' That's the idea. And they don't."
The same lesson of self-restraint was taught by Marshal Foch in his words to the soldiers of France. He urged them to keep their eyes and ears ready and their mouths "in the safety notch"; and he told them they must obey orders first and kick afterwards if they had been wronged. He said, "Bear in mind that the enemy is your enemy and the enemy of humanity until he is killed or captured; then he is your dear brother or fellow soldier beaten or ashamed, whom you should no further humiliate." He told them that it was necessary to keep their heads clear and cool, to be of good cheer, to suffer in silence, to dread defeat, but not wounds, to fear dishonor, but not death, and to die game. Because so many of the soldiers under him heeded this wise admonition, they did not waste their precious strength on useless and harmful emotions, but they were ever ready to go to their task, with the motto of their division, "It shall be done."
What a blessing it will be to the world that millions of young men were trained in France to repress hurtful emotion, to exercise self-restraint—which may be defined as the act or process of holding back or hindering oneself from harmful thoughts or actions. And what a wonderful thing it will be if the lesson is passed on to us, so that we shall not be like the torrent that wastes its power by rushing and brawling over the stones, all to no purpose, but like the harnessed stream whose energy is made to turn the wheels of factory and mill. For only guarded and guided strength is useful and safe.
"Every man that falls must understand beforehand that he is a dead man and nothing can save him. It is useless for him to cry out, and it may, by giving the alarm, cause the enterprise to fail."
This was the message to his men of the officer to whom Napoleon committed the capture of Mt. Cenis.
The historian tells us that at one point in the ascent of a precipitous track, three men fell. "Their bodies were heard bounding from crag to crag, but not a cry was heard, not a moan. The body of one hero was recovered later. There was a smile on his lips."
How that record of the silence succeeded by a smile grips the heart, for it was not the false courage that plays to the grandstand, but the deeper, truer courage that sinks self for the good of others, and does this not merely because it is a part of the game, but with the gladness that transfigures life.
Such courage does not wait for some great occasion for exhibiting itself; it is revealed in the midst of the humdrum routine of daily life—a routine that is especially trying to those who have been looking forward to some great, perhaps dramatic service.
A young man of seventeen entered the navy, with his parents' consent, as an apprentice. When he left home he had dreams of entering at once on a life of thrilling adventure where there would be numberless opportunities for the display of high courage. At the end of a month a friend asked him how he liked life at the navy yard. "Fine!" was the reply. "What are you doing?" was the next query. "They haven't given me anything but window washing to do yet," he replied, with a smile that was an index of character.
A newspaper writer has told of a college student nineteen years old who enlisted in the navy. He was sent to one of our naval stations and told to guard a pile of coal. As the summer passed he still guarded that coal pile. He wrote home about it:
"You know, dad, when we were little shavers, you always rubbed it into us that anything that was worth doing at all was worth doing as well as it could be done. I've been standing over that coal pile nearly three months now, and it looks just exactly as small as it did when I first landed on the job."
"He was relieved from the coal pile at last and promoted," said the writer who told of him. "At the same time the government gave him a last chance to return to his college work. He thought it over carefully. He realized that America was going to need trained men as never before, but still, he decided, the best service that he individually could give was the one that he had chosen. He had a few days of leave before going on to his next assignment, and he hurried back to his home. He found that his summer task was a matter of town history, and he had to face a good deal of affectionate raillery about his coal pile. Of course he did not mind that. But his answer revealed his spirit:
"'You may laugh, but that coal pile was all right. I'll admit it got on my nerves for a bit, but I figured it out that while I was taking care of that coal pile I was releasing some other fellow who knew things I didn't know, and who could do things I couldn't do. I'm ready to stand by a coal pile till the war ends, if that's where I can help the most.'"
"That is the spirit that will conquer because it is the spirit that never can be conquered," was the comment made on the incident. "There is no self in it—only consecration to duty; no seeking for large things—only for an opportunity to serve whenever the call comes. That is the spirit that is growing in America to-day—and only through such spirit can we accomplish our great task in the life of the world."
The man who really desires to serve his fellows does not think of declaring that he will not do humble tasks, but he demands that the work he is asked to do shall be needed.
A young man who was seeking his life work made known his willingness to be a shoe-black, if he could be convinced that this was the work God wanted him to do. An immigrant in New York City read in the morning, "Lord, my heart is not haughty nor mine eyes lofty." Then he went out to sweep a store, and he swept it well. It is worthy of note that the young man who was willing to be a shoe-black became one of the foremost men of his generation, and that the immigrant became the pastor of a leading city church. But a far more important fact is that the quality of the service given counted more in their minds than the character of the employment.
The service of the man who would be worth while in the world must partake of the spirit of the successful figure on the baseball diamond or the football gridiron: readiness to do everything, or anything—or to do nothing, if he is so directed—in the interests of the team. It must take a leaf from the book of General Pershing and his fellow officers who, in a time of stress for the Allies, were willing and eager to brigade their troops with the soldiers of France and England, thus losing the identity of their forces in the interest of the great cause for which they stood. It must learn the lesson taught by the life of Him who emptied Himself for the sake of the world—and did it with a smile.
A gifted writer has told the story of a workman in a Bessemer steel furnace who was jealous of the foreman whom he thought had injured him. The foreman was making a good record, and the workman did not want to see him succeed. So he plotted his undoing—he loosened the bolts of the cable that controlled an important part of the machinery, and so caused an accident that not only interfered seriously with the day's turn, but put a section of the plant out of commission for the time being. As a result the superintendent was discharged. When he left he vowed vengeance on the man whom he suspected of causing his discharge: "I'll get you for this some day," he declared. Perhaps he would have been even more emphatic if he had known the extent of his enemy's culpability.
Years passed. The workman who had loosened the bolts became superintendent of the mill. He, too, tried to break a production record, and was in a fair way to succeed until some mysterious difficulty developed that interfered seriously with results. And just when the new superintendent was losing sleep over his problem, the old superintendent came to town.
"He's come for his revenge!" was the thought of the new superintendent.
But the superintendent did not wait for a visit from the man he feared; he sought him at once. "He must know the extent of my meanness," he decided. So he told his story. To his surprise the former foreman seemed more interested in the account of the progress of the mill than in the sorry tale of past misdeeds. Learning of the mysterious difficulty that threatened failure in the attempt to break the production record, the injured man showed real concern. "I can't imagine where the difficulty is, but I'd like to take a look around for it," he said. Arm in arm, then, the two men, once bitter enemies, moved toward the mill. The search was successful, the difficulty was corrected, and the record was broken.
Fine story, isn't it? What a pity it is only a story, that such things don't ever happen in real life!
Don't they? How about Henry Nasmyth, the English inventor of the steam piledriver, whose ideas were stolen by French machinists? His first knowledge of the piracy was when he saw a crude imitation of his piledriver in a factory in France. Instead of seeking damages and threatening vengeance, he pointed out mistakes made in construction and helped his imitators perfect the appliance they had stolen from him.
Yes, such things do happen in daily life. They are happening every day. As we read of them or hear of them or meet people who are actors in such a drama, we are conscious of admiration for the deed, a quickening of the pulse, and the thankful thought that the world is not such a bad place after all.
But are we to stop with quickened heartbeats and gratitude for the greatness of heart shown by others? How about the bitterness we have been treasuring against some one who has injured us—or some one we think has injured us (it is astonishing how many of the slights and indignities for which vengeance has been vowed are only imaginary, after all!) How long do we intend to persist in treasuring the grudge that has perhaps already caused sorrow that cannot be measured? Let's be courageous enough to own ourselves in the wrong, when we are in the wrong, and to forgive the evil that has been kept alive by our persistent efforts to remember it. Let the quickened pulse-beat be ours not merely because we are hearing about forgiveness, but because we ourselves are rejoicing in friendship restored.
There are people whose minds are like a lumber-room, littered with all sorts of odds and ends. In such a room it is impossible to count on laying hands promptly on a desired article, and in such a mind confusion takes the place of order. The mind had better be empty. An empty mind presents a fine opening for the proper kind of filling, but a confused mind is hopeless. How is it possible to make the memory a helpful servant unless nothing is allowed to find lodgment there that is not worth while?
An old proverb says, "No one can keep the birds from flying about his head, but one can keep them from nesting in his hair." That proverb points the way to saving the mind from becoming a lodging place for lumbering thoughts and ideas; everything that is certain to hinder instead of help one to be worth-while to the world must be told that there is "positively no admittance."
Among the things one must not afford permission to pass the bars is the thought that some associate may have said or done something that seemed like a slight or an injury. No man can afford to injure another, but any man can better afford to be injured than to allow his thoughts to dwell on the injury, to brood over it, until he is in a degree unfitted for his work. Far better is it to be like a father who said to his son when the latter, years after the commission of the deed, was speaking of his sorrow that he had grieved his father so: "Son, you must be dreaming; I don't recall the incident."
Then one must know when to forget evil things heard of another. Sometimes it is necessary to remember such facts, but so often the insinuations made concerning other people are not worth consideration, because they are not true. Even where there is ground for them, they are not proper subjects for thought and remembrance.
It is best to forget past achievements, unless they are made stepping-stones to greater achievements, spurs to work that could never be done without them. Yet how often the temptation comes to gloat in thought over these things, and over the good things said of one because of them, while opportunities for greater things are passed by. Thus a school-boy thought with delight of a word of commendation from his teacher when he ought to have been giving attention to the recitation of the pupil next to him; the result was a reprimand that stung. A soldier in the trenches has no time to gaze in admiration at the medal he has won by valor when at any moment there may sound the call to deeds of still greater valor. No more should a civilian imperil future success by failure to forget "the things which are behind."
The individual who refuses to forget a kindness he has done to someone else is another cumberer of the ground. A safe rule is, never forget a kindness received from another, but forget at once a kindness done to another. It is not difficult to sympathize with the youth who, after being reminded for the twentieth time by his brother of a trip to New Orleans for which the brother had paid out of his savings, said, "Yes, and I wish I had never taken a cent of the money!"
A thing to be forgotten always is the off-color story with which some people persist in polluting the atmosphere. Unfortunately there are always to be found folks like the young man of whom Donald Hankey said "He talks about things that I won't even think." When such talk is heard, don't think of it. If you do, you are apt to think of it again and again, until, perhaps, you will be telling it to some one else. And no one wants to be remembered as was the business man, proposed for the presidency of a great concern, of whom one said, "No, don't let's have him; he has earned a reputation for telling questionable stories."
If a good memory is to be a good servant, it must be trained to remember only the things that are helpful. And that takes courage!
One of the trying disappointments of daily life comes with the discovery that something on which we have been depending is no longer worthy of confidence, because a foreign substance, some adulterant, has been mixed with it, without our knowledge. This seemed to be the case perhaps more than ever before during the recent days of war when a severe strain was put on the products of nearly every kind.
In many parts of the country those who were compelled to replenish their coal supply during the worst weather of a severe winter complained because the anthracite then secured gave out little heat; it contained such a large proportion of culm or other waste product which, in ordinary times, is carefully removed before shipment, that it could not do its work properly.
Disappointed in their anthracite, some turned to bituminous coal, only to find that at least fifty per cent, of a shipment received during the days of stress was made up of rock and clay.
Experience with the coal should have prepared one of the purchasers for his disappointment in a restaurant where he had been accustomed to be served with a splendid oyster stew. But he was surprised and displeased when he found that at least one-third of the milk which should have gone into the stew had been displaced by water.
At home that evening the same man was told more of the activity of dealers who permit impurities to interfere with the comfort of those who like pure products; the grocer had that day sent a package of soup beans which contained at least ten per cent. of gravel.