The Book of Courage Part 8

"Why, in the name of reason, do you walk a mile in the rain for a perfectly unimportant thing?" this man was asked on another occasion.

"Simply because I have discovered that it was a misstatement, and I could not sleep comfortably till I put it right," was the reply.

Again the story is told of him that he borrowed a friend's horse to ride to a town where he expected to take the stage. He promised to leave the animal at a certain stable in the town. Upon reaching the place he found that the stage was several miles upon its way. This was a serious disappointment. A friend urged him to ride to the next town, where he could come up with the vehicle, promising himself to send after the borrowed horse and forward it to its owner. The temptation to accept the offer was great. The roads were ankle deep in mud, and the stage rapidly rolling on its way. The only obstacle was his promise to leave the horse at the appointed place. He declined the friendly offer, delivered the horse as he had promised, and, shouldering his baggage, set off on foot through the mud to catch the stage.

At this time he was eighteen years old, but he had learned the lesson that made him remarkably efficient and dependable through life.

Dr. W. T. Grenfell has told of a hardy trapper in Labrador, the partner of a man who was easily discouraged; the arrangement was that they should share equally the hards.h.i.+ps and the rewards of the trapping expeditions. Both were very poor. The stronger man was most unselfish in his treatment of his a.s.sociate. One winter their lives were all but lost during the severity of a storm which burst on them while they were setting their traps on an ice-girt island. On reaching the mainland the timid man insisted on dissolving the partners.h.i.+p; he was unwilling to repeat the risks, even for the sake of his needy family. In a few days the hardy trapper revisited the traps on the mainland. To his great joy he found in one trap a magnificent silver fox, whose skin was worth five hundred dollars--a fortune to the Labrador trapper, especially welcome during that hard winter. "How glad I am the partners.h.i.+p has been dissolved, and that the fox is all mine," was his first thought. But first thought was not allowed to be last thought. There was a struggle.

At length the decision was made that the needy man who had set the trap with him should share in the prize; the argument that he had forfeited all right to a share was not allowed to weigh against the unselfish arguments for division.

A friend of young people has told of an incident which occurred in a great Boston department store where she sought to match some dress goods. After turning away from several discourteous clerks she showed her sample to a salesman who gave respectful attention to her. Glancing at the slits cut in the side of the bit of goods, he remarked:

"That isn't one of my samples. I will ask the clerk who mailed this sample to wait on you."

"But I don't want any other clerk to wait on me," responded the women, hastily, fearing that the sample might have come originally from one of the discourteous clerks first encountered; "I want you to have this sale."

"If you had asked for goods of that quality, width and price, without showing me the sample, I could have found it for you at once," replied the clerk, with a smile, "but now, this sale belongs to the clerk who sent out the sample."

"Then I won't give you this sample to hunt it up by," said the woman, wis.h.i.+ng to see if she could carry her point, and she proceeded to tuck the sample away in her purse.

"But I know that I have seen it, and my conscience knows it," was the clerk's comment, as he laughingly laid his hand on his heart and turned to look for the other salesman.

The purchaser went on to tell thus of the salesman's unerring loyalty to his principles: "In a moment he returned. The other clerk was at lunch.

What a sigh of relief I gave! 'I will make out the sale and turn it over to him when he comes in,' he said, displaying the s.h.i.+ning black folds of the goods I desired."

A real estate dealer in a Texas city was once tempted to be false to his principles, "just once," when he felt sure a sale depended on it. His prospective customer was a foreigner, who wished the salesman to drink with him after a trip to examine the property on Sat.u.r.day and then to promise to make an engagement to continue the search next morning. But the business man was opposed to the use of liquor, and he had never done business on Sunday. What was he to do on this occasion? Would it hurt anything if he should make an exception in favor of this customer who could not be expected to understand his scruples?

The temptation was acute; but it was conquered. Respectfully but firmly the buyer was told why the salesman could not join him in taking a drink, and why he could not go with him again until Monday morning. The man went away in a rage.

Next morning the real estate man saw the foreigner in the hands of a rival. "That sale is gone!" he thought. When three days more pa.s.sed without the return of the buyer he decided that he had paid heavily for being true to his better self.

But on Thursday evening the foreigner sought the conscientious real estate dealer and surprised him by saying:

"Those other fellows showed me lots of farms, but you wouldn't drink with me, nor show me land on Sunday because you think it wrong. So, maybe, I think you won't lie to me. I buy my farm of you."

Many times the reward of being true to one's conscience will not come so promptly--except in the satisfaction the man has in knowing that he has done the right thing. But the sure result is to bring him a little nearer to the great reward that must come to a man whose integrity has stood the test of years--the appreciation of those who know him and their confidence in his honor.

IV

DUTY DOING

It is not always necessary that a man should be aquainted with another to be able to repose implicit confidence in him. A life of fearless, straightforward duty-doing will inevitably leave its record in the face.

Sometimes a frank, open countenance that cannot be misread is far better than any letter of introduction.

"We are suspicious of strangers," a man said to one who had sought at his hands a favor that called for trust; then he added, with a smile, "but some faces are above suspicion," and proceeded, with overwhelming generosity, to grant far more than had been asked.

Years ago a business man unexpectedly found himself without sufficient funds to continue his journey through Europe. As this was before the days of travelers' checks or the ocean cable, he was at a loss what to do. In his uncertainty he went to an Italian banking house and asked them to cash a large draft on his home bank. After an instant's pause the request was granted. Years later the merchant again saw the accommodating banker, and asked why a stranger was given such a large sum. "In plain truth, it was just your honest face, and nothing else,"

was the reply. On another trip abroad the merchant had a similar experience. During a thunderstorm he took refuge with his wife in a curio shop. The English-speaking woman in charge was so cordial, and her goods were so pleasing, that the visitor said he would have liked to make some purchase, but his remaining funds were not more than sufficient for his journey home. The reply was: "Take whatever you please, sir. No one could look in your face and distrust you."

A similar story was told by a Russian Jew who entered New York a penniless immigrant. After a disheartening period of working in the sweatshop he saw an opportunity to start in business for himself. But he had no capital. At a venture he asked a business man to trust him for the stock in trade. After gazing at him closely the man said, "You have a credit face, so I will do as you ask."

It is worth while to have a face that insures confidence. But let it be remembered that the possession of such a face is not an accident; it belongs only to those who have the courage to think honestly, deal fairly and live truly.

V

FINDING HIS LIFE

During the boyhood of Charles Abraham Hart, who was later the youngest soldier in the War with Spain, he was on confidential terms with his mother. One day when they were visiting together, she asked him about something that had happened the winter before, which she was unable to understand. His father had given to him and to his brothers two dollars each to spend for Christmas presents. William spent the entire sum, but Charles bought cheap presents, and it was evident that he had kept back a part of the amount. Other members of the family misunderstood him, but his mother thought she knew him well enough to be sure he had done nothing selfish.

The record of the conversation between mother and son is told in the boy's biography:

"The presents you bought were very cheap presents," she said to him. "I don't think they could have cost more than seventy-five cents."

"They cost sixty-five cents," he told her.

"And your father asked what you had done with the rest of your money, and you said you didn't want to tell him."

"Yes, I remember that father thought I was stingy, too."

"Do you mind telling me now what you did with the money?"

The boy did not answer for a few moments. Then he said, quietly:

"I bought a Bible for Fred Phillips. He didn't have a good Bible, and I thought he needed one more than you and the boys needed expensive presents."

"But why didn't you tell your father?"

"Because Fred was ashamed not to be able to buy the Bible for himself, and he wouldn't take mine until I had promised that I wouldn't tell anybody that I had given it to him. Since Fred has moved to Boston, I feel he wouldn't care if I told you. I want you to know, for I just heard to-day that Fred has joined the church. Isn't that good news?"

"Yes, indeed. Perhaps your giving him the Bible helped him to do it, too. Charles, when you get to be a man, do you suppose you will always be so careless of how others may misunderstand you?"

"I am not careless of that now," he declared. "The desire to be popular is one of the things I have to fight against all the time."

What shall we choose? Comfort of service? Ease, or honorable performance of duty? The desire for popularity, or the purpose to be of use? Service is the best way to find comfort; honorable performance of duty is the sure road to the only ease worth while, and thoughtfulness for others is the open sesame to popularity.

There is nothing new in this statement. It is only one of the thousand and one possible applications of the lesson taught by the great Teacher when He said, "He that loseth his life for My sake shall find it."

CHAPTER FIVE

_COURAGE FOR THE SAKE OF OTHERS_

FROM Norway comes a moving tale of a lighthouse keeper. One day he went to the distant sh.o.r.e for provisions. A storm arose, and he was unable to return. The time for lighting the lamp came, and Mary, the elder child, said to her little brother, "We must light the lamp, Willie." "How can we?" was his question. But the two children climbed the long narrow stairs to the tower where the lamp was kept. Mary pulled up a chair and tried to reach the lamp in the great reflector; it was too high. Groping down the stairs she ascended again with a small oil lamp in her hand. "I can hold this up," she said. She climbed on the chair again, but still the reflector was just beyond her reach. "Get down," said Willie, "I know what we can do." She jumped down and he stretched his little body across the chair. "Stand on me," he said. And she stood on the little fellow as he lay across the chair. She raised the lamp high, and its light shone far out across the water. Holding it first with one hand, then with the other, to rest her little arms, she called down to her brother, "Does it hurt you, Willie?" "Of course it hurts," he called back, "but keep the light burning."

The boy was wise beyond his years. He would do the important thing, no matter how it hurt. Here the thing of chief importance was looking out for the men at sea. To put them first took real courage. But what of it?