the university of hard knocks-第17节

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r　would　tell　them；　〃Cut　it　short；　he's　busy！〃　before　they　could　break　any　news　to　him　today。

They　hung　a　picture　of　Mr。　Lambert　in　the　high　school　at　the　last　alumni　meeting。　They　hung　it　on　the　wall　near　where　the　oleander　stood　that　night。

Dull　boy　or　girlyou　with　your　eyes　tear…dimmed　sometimes　because　you　do　not　seem　to　learn　like　some　in　your　classes　can　you　not　get　a　bit　of　cheer　from　the　story　of　Jim？





Hours　pass；　and　still　as　I　sat　in　that　hotel　room　I　was　lost　in　that　school　picture　and　the　twenty…one　years。　There　were　fifty…four　young　people　in　that　picture。　They　had　been　shaken　these　years　in　the　barrel；　and　now　as　I　called　the　roll　on　them；　most　of　them　that　I　expected　to　go　up　had　shaken　down　and　some　that　I　expected　to　stay　down　had　shaken　up。

Out　of　that　fifty…four；　one　had　gone　to　a　pulpit；　one　had　gone　to　Congress　and　one　had　gone　to　the　penitentiary。　Some　had　gone　to　brilliant　success　and　some　had　gone　down　to　sad　failure。　Some　had　found　happiness　and　some　had　found　unhappiness。　It　seemed　as　tho　almost　every　note　on　the　keyboard　of　human　possibility　had　been　struck　by　the　one　school　of　fifty…four。

When　that　picture　was　taken　the　oldest　was　not　more　than　eighteen；　yet　most　of　them　seemed　already　to　have　decided　their　destinies。　The　twenty…one　years　that　followed　had　not　changed　their　courses。

The　only　changes　had　come　where　God　had　come　into　a　life　to　uplift　it；　or　where　Mammon　had　entered　to　pull　it　down。　And　I　saw　better　that　the　foolish　dreams　of　success　faded　before　the　natural　unfolding　of　talents；　which　is　the　real　success。　I　saw　better　that　〃the　boy　is　father　to　the　man。〃

The　boy　who　skimmed　over　his　work　in　school　was　skimming　over　his　work　as　a　man。　The　boy　who　went　to　the　bottom　of　things　in　school　was　going　to　the　bottom　of　things　in　manhood。　Which　had　helped　him　to　go　to　the　top　of　things！

Jim　Lambert　had　merely　followed　the　call　of　talents　unseen　in　him　twenty…one　years　before。

The　lazy　boy　became　a　〃tired〃　man。　The　industrious　boy　became　an　industrious　man。　The　sporty　boy　became　a　sporty　man。　The　domineering　egotist　boy　became　the　domineering　egotist　man。

The　boy　who　traded　knives　with　me　and　beat　mehow　I　used　to　envy　him！　Why　was　it　he　could　always　get　the　better　of　me？　Well；　he　went　on　trading　knives　and　getting　the　better　of　people。　Now；　twenty…one　years　afterwards；　he　was　doing　time　in　the　state　penitentiary　for　forgery。　He　was　now　called　a　bad　man；　when　twenty…one　years　ago　when　he　did　the　same　things　on　a　smaller　scale　they　called　him　smart　and　bright。

The　〃perfectly　lovely〃　boy　who　didn't　mix　with　the　other　boys；　who　didn't　whisper；　who　never　got　into　trouble；　who　always　had　his　hair　combed；　and　said；　〃If　you　please；〃　used　to　hurt　me。　He　was　the　teacher's　model　boy。　All　the　mothers　of　the　community　used　to　say　to　their　own　reprobate　offspring；　〃Why　can't　you　be　like　Harry？　He'll　be　President　of　the　United　States　some　day；　and　you'll　be　in　jail。〃　But　Model　Harry　sat　around　all　his　life　being　a　model。　I　believe　Mr。　Webster　defines　a　model　as　a　small　imitation　of　the　real　thing。　Harry　certainly　was　a　successful　model。　He　became　a　seedy；　sleepy；　helpless　relic　at　forty。　He　was　〃perfectly　lovely〃　because　he　hadn't　the　energy　to　be　anything　else。　It　was　the　boys　who　had　the　hustle　and　the　energy；　who　occasionally　needed　bumpingand　who　got　itwho　really　grew。

I　have　said　little　about　the　girls　of　the　school。　Fact　was；　at　that　age　I　didn't　pay　much　attention　to　them。　I　regarded　them　as　in　the　way。　But　I　naturally　thought　of　Clarice；　our　social　pet　of　the　classour　real　pretty　girl　who　won　the　vase　in　the　home　paper　beauty　contest。　Clarice　went　right　on　remaining　in　the　social　spotlight；　primping　and　flirting。　She　outshone　all　the　rest。　But　it　seemed　like　she　was　all　out…shine　and　no　in…shine。　She　mistook　popularity　for　success。　The　boys　voted　for　her；　but　did　not　marry　her。　Most　of　the　girls　who　shone　with　less　social　luster　became　the　happy　homemakers　of　the　community。

But　as　I　looked　into　the　face　of　Jim　Lambert　in　the　picture；　my　heart　warmed　at　the　sight　of　another　great　successa　sweet…faced　irish　lass　who　became　an　〃old　maid。〃　She　had　worked　day　by　day　all　these　years　to　support　a　home　and　care　for　her　family。　She　had　kept　her　grace　and　sweetness　thru　it　all；　and　the　influence　of　her　white；　loving　life　radiated　far。




The　Boy　I　Had　Envied


Frank　was　the　boy　I　had　envied。　He　had　everythinga　fine　home；　a　loving　father；　plenty　of　money；　opportunity　and　a　great　career　awaiting　him。　And　he　was　bright　and　lovable　and　talented。　Everybody　said　Frank　would　make　his　mark　in　the　world　and　make　the　town　proud　of　him。

I　was　the　janitor　of　the　schoolhouse。　Some　of　my　classmates　will　never　know　how　their　thoughtless　jeers　and　jokes　wounded　the　sensitive；　shabby　boy　who　swept　the　floors；　built　the　fires　and　carried　in　the　coal。　After　commencement　my　career　seemed　to　end　and　the　careers　of　Frank　and　the　rest　of　them　seemed　to　begin。　They　were　going　off　to　college　and　going　to　do　so　many　wonderful　things。

But　the　week　after　commencement　I　had　to　go　into　a　printing　office；　roll　up　my　sleeves　and　go　to　work　in　the　〃devil's　corner〃　to　earn　my　daily　bread。　Seemed　like　it　took　so　much　bread！

Many　a　time　as　I　plugged　at　the　〃case〃　I　would　think　of　Frank　and　wonder　why　some　people　had　all　the　good　things　and　I　had　all　the　hard　things。

How　easy　it　is　to　see　as　you　look　backward。　But　how　hard　it　is　to　see　when　you　look　forward。

Twenty…one　years　afterward　as　I　got　off　the　train　in　the　home　town；　I　asked；　〃Where　is　he？〃　We　went　out　to　the　cemetery；　where　I　stood　at　a　grave　and　read　on　the　headstone；　〃Frank。〃

I　had　the　story　of　a　tragedythe　tragedy　of　modern　unpreparedness。　It　was　the　story　of　the　boy　who　had　every　opportunity；　but　who　had　all　the　struggle　taken　out　of　his　life。　He　never　followed　his　career；　never　developed　any　strength。　He　disappointed　hopes；　spent　a　fortune；　broke　his　father's　heart；　shocked　the　community；　and　finally　ended　his　wasted　life　with　a　bullet　fired　by　his　own　hand。　　


Why　Ben　Hur　Won


It　revived　the　memory　of　the　story　of　Ben　Hur。

Do　you　remember　it？　The　Jewish　boy　is　torn　from　his　home　in　disgrace。　He　is　haled　into　court　and　tried　for　a　crime　he　never　committed。　Ben　Hur　did　not　get　a　fair　trial。　Nobody　can　get　a　fair　trial　at　the　hands　of　this　world。　That　is　why　the　great　Judge　has　said；　judge　not；　for　you　have　not　the　full　evidence　in　the　case。　I　alone　have　that。

Then　they　condemn　him。　They　lead　him　away　to　the　galleys。　They　chain　him　to　the　bench　and　to　the　oar。　There　follow　the　days　and　long　years　when　he　pulls　on　the　oar　under　the　lash。　Day　after　day　he　pulls　on　the　oar。　Day　after　day　he　writhes　under　the　sting　of　the　lash。　Years　of　the　cruel　injustice　pass。　Ben　Hur　is　the　helpless　victim　of　a　mocking　fate。

That　seems　to　be　your　life　and　my　life。　In　the　kitchen　or　the　office；　or　wherever　we　work　we　seem　so　often　like　slaves　bound　to　the　oar　and　pulling　under　the　sting　of　the　lash　of　necessity。　Life　seems　one　futureless　round　of　drudgery。　We　wonder　why。　We　often　look　across　the　street　and　see　somebody　who　lives　a　happier　life。　That　one　is　chained　to　no　oar。　See　what　a　fine　time　they　all　have。　Why　must　we　pull　on　the　oar？

How　blind　we　are！　We　can　only　see　our　own　oar。　We　cannot　see　that　they；　too；　pull　on　the　oar　and　feel　the　lash。　Most　likely　they　are　looking　back　at　us　and　envying　us。　For　while　we　envy　others；　others　are　envying　us。

But　look　at　the　chariot　race　in　Antioch。　See　the　thousands　in　the　circus。　See　Messala；　the　haughty　Roman；　and　see！　Ben　Hur　from　the　galleys　in　the　other　chariot　pitted　against　him。　Down　the　course　dash　these　twin　thunderbolts。　The　thousands　hold　their　breath。　〃Who　will　win？〃　〃The　man　with　the　stronger　forearms；〃　they　whisper。

There　comes　the　crucial　moment　in　the　race。　See　the　man　with　the　stronger　forearms。　They　are　bands　of　steel　that　swell　in　the　forearms　of　Ben　Hur。　They　swing　those　flying　Arabians　into　the　inner　ring。　Ben　Hur　wins　the　race！　Where　got　the　Jew　those　huge　forearms？　From　the　galleys！

Had　Ben　Hur　never　pulled　on　the　oar；　he　never　could　have　won　the　chariot　race。

Sooner　or　later　you　and　I　are　to　learn　that　Providence　makes　no　mistakes　in　the　bookkeeping。　As　we　pull　on　the　oar；　so　often　lashed　by　grim　necessity；　every　honest　effort　is　laid　up　at　compound　interest　in　the　bank　account　of　strength。　Sooner　or　later　the　time　comes　when　we　need　every　ounce。　Sooner　or　later　our　chariot　race　is　onwhen　we　win　the　victory；　strike　the　deciding　blow；　stand　while　those　around　us　falland　it　is　won　with　the　forearms　earned　in　the　galleys　of　life　by　pulling　on　the　oar。





That　is　why　I　thanked　God　as　I　stood　at　the　grave　of　my　classmate。　I　thanked　God　for　parents　who　believed　in　the　gospel　of　struggle；　and　for　the　circumstances　that　compelled　it。

I　am　not　an　example　of　success。

But　I　am　a　very　grateful　pupil　in　the　first　reader　class　of　The　University　of　Hard　Knocks。



Chapter　IX

Go　On　South！

The　Book　in　the　Running　Brook

THERE　is　a　little　silvery　sheet　of　water　in　Minnesota　called　Lake　Itasca。　There　is　a　place　where　a　little　stream　leaps　out　from　the　lake。

〃Ole！〃　you　will　exclaim；　〃the　lake　is　leaking。　What　is　the　name　of　this　little　cre