Once upon a time, in a quaint old town, there lived a queer little old
man. His name was Thrift--Father Thrift people called him, although he
really was no father at all.
As I said before, he was just a queer little old man. He had no wife,
no children, no home of his own.
But he had a kind heart within his queer little body. Also, he had
willing hands and feet, and these brought him many friends.
How old the queer little man was, or how long he had lived in the
quaint old town, no one seemed to know.
The present grandfathers and grandmothers remembered how the queer
little man used to take them, as children, on his lap and tell them
stories.
He had told the same stories to their children and to their children's
children. Yet to none of them did he look any different to-day than he
did when they first saw him.
You must not think that telling stories was all the queer little old
man had to do. He was a sort of all-round village helper. He helped
everybody who needed help.
But it was for his good advice that the queer little old man was most
sought. He always thought well for everybody, and the people profited
by following his teaching.
In fact, the whole town grew prosperous, _extremely_ prosperous, by
heeding Father Thrift's advice.
You would suppose that the queer little old man would be well
rewarded.
Not so! For when these people became very, _very_ prosperous, they
felt that the queer little old man was only in their way.
What further need had they of his advice?
He had taught them to live simply, to spend wisely, and to waste
nothing. He had taught them to enjoy simple pleasures and to form
simple habits.
"Of what good is time or money, body or brain, if we do not know how
to use any of them?" he would say.
"What will become of good health if we do not take care of it?
"Of what good is study-time or play-time unless we get the most we can
out of it?
"Or of what worth is life itself if we waste it?"
But the townspeople would not listen to him now. Young Mr. Spendthrift
had come to town and they followed him. They only laughed at Father
Thrift.
"Poor, queer old man!" they said. "He must be out of his head."
And they began to spend money foolishly, and to waste their time and
their health as well as their money.
_How_ it grieved the queer little old man to see things go so!
Day after day he would sit with his head in his hands, thinking,
thinking, _thinking_. (He liked to think even better than most people
like to eat.)
Then one day, after he had sat for a long, long time thinking, he got
up and exclaimed: "At last, at last I have it! I'm sure I have it,
this time. Yes, I'm sure."
And those who heard the queer little old man said: "Just as we told
you. Poor fellow, he's out of his head! Some of the wheels up here
have gotten badly out of order." And they pointed to their foreheads.
But the old man heard them not. Or if he heard he lost no sleep on
account of what they said.