THE THRILLING STORY OF AN IMMIGRANT BOY
In October, 1858, a boy was born in a Serbian village to whom was given
the name of Michael Pupin. His parents were poor and could neither read
or write, but they understood the value of education and so when little
Michael, after his first few weeks at school, complained that he did
not like it, and would rather play, his mother told him that she had
always felt as if she were blind, for, although she had eyes, she could
not read, and was afraid to venture beyond her own little village.
The people of Idvor, where Michael was born, were faithful to the
customs of the Serbian race, and during the long winter evenings there
were many gatherings at the home of Michael’s parents. The older men
sat around the warm stove on a bench which was a part of the stove
and made of the same material, usually soft brick, plastered over and
whitewashed. The older women were seated on little stools along the
wall and they would spin wool, flax or hemp, while the men told stories
of Serbian bravery. The young people, and even the middle-aged folk,
did not speak unless they were given permission to do so.
Young Michael was much impressed with these gatherings and by what he
heard. He remained silent as he sat by his mother’s side, for little
fellows like him were expected to be seen and not heard. But his boyish
mind was very busy and he laughed and wept as the stories were told
which deeply stirred his imagination, and he felt that there never
could be such brave people as the Serbs.
One of the great seasons of the Serbian year was the celebration of St.
Sava. St. Sava was a Serbian Archbishop who lived in the thirteenth
century, and the Serbs have ever since honoured his memory. It was
the custom to have some boy selected who recited before the village
people stories of St. Sava which had been written out for him. One year
Michael Pupin was chosen to do this. Although he could not read, his
mother knew the St. Sava stories perfectly and she coached the boy.
Over and over again, for many a long hour, she had Michael recite.
Every word had to be correctly pronounced, every gesture come in at the
right place, and the whole so completely memorised that there would be
no hesitation. At last the day came and Michael stood up before the
entire population of the village and did his part so well that everyone
was impressed. Even the boys and girls, who generally giggled through
the ceremony, paid strict attention and soon after the village teacher
said to his mother: “Your boy will soon outgrow the village school of
Idvor.”
Soon after this Michael was sent to a higher school in the town of
Panchevo, about fifteen miles from Idvor. Here he studied hard to catch
up with the boys and girls whose privileges had been so much greater
than his own. He did so well at Panchevo that at the end of the year
the congregation of the village church at Idvor gave money to his
parents that he might be sent to continue his schooling at Prague. When
the day came for him to take the long journey to Prague, his mother
had everything ready for him. There were two bags made of beautifully
coloured wool, which contained all his belongings; one his clothes and
the other his provisions, which consisted of a large loaf of bread
and a roast goose. He had only the suit that he was wearing, but his
sisters told him it was stylish and that he looked like a city-bred
boy. He had a long yellow overcoat made of sheepskins and a black
sheepskin cap. The journey was by boat to Budapest and thence by rail
to Prague. Michael had never seen either a steamboat or a railway train
before, and he opened his eyes wide with wonder. On the boat he fell
in with a group of young students who professed to take great interest
in him, but after they had gone he discovered that they had taken his
roast goose, and he had to content himself with his loaf of bread.
Once settled in Prague he made good progress at the school, and no
doubt would have remained there for several years had not his father
died, and the boy was stranded. Some time before this he had heard
that America was a land of great opportunity for such lads as he, and
he determined to go there. He sold his watch, his books, his clothes,
even his yellow sheepskin coat and his black sheepskin cap, in order
to raise the passage money. He thought he would not need much clothing
in America, for he had seen pictures of almost naked Indians; so he
concluded that it must be a warm climate, and very little clothing
would be needed. On the 12th of March, 1874, when only a few months
past his fifteenth birthday, he set sail on the _Westphalia_ for New
York.
The journey across the Atlantic was not a very pleasant one for the
young Serbian. The weather was bitterly cold and stormy. He was so
thinly clad that he spent the chilly March nights huddled close to
the smokestack of the vessel in order to keep warm. He did not have
sufficient money to rent a mattress or a blanket for his bunk. It was
a severe test for the lonely lad and many a night, as he hugged the
smokestack of the vessel and shifted his position to avoid the force of
the gale and the sharpness of its icy blasts, his courage almost failed
him. The only headgear he had was a Turkish fez and most of the other
immigrants thought that he was a Turk and left him severely alone.
When, at the end of the fourteen days, land was seen nobody on the ship
was happier than he.
When he landed at New York, Michael Pupin had only five cents in his
pocket and this he spent on a piece of prune pie. He did not know one
word of the English language, nor had he a single friend in America.
When he reached Broadway he rubbed his eyes in amazement and something
akin to fear took possession of him. The crowded streets with telegraph
wires like so many spider’s webs, together with the tremendous noise on
every hand, bewildered him and for some moments he stood stock-still.
His puzzled expression, together with the odd-looking Turkish fez, must
have attracted considerable attention, for suddenly he found himself
surrounded by a crowd of boys, big and little, who were jeering and
laughing at him. They were newsboys and bootblacks who were anxious
to have some fun at his expense. One of the biggest of them knocked
his fez off, and Michael promptly punched his nose. Immediately they
closed and a wrestling-bout began, with scores of lads shouting in
a language not one word of which the young Serbian understood. But
Michael had learned to wrestle in his village home and promptly had
the big bully on his back. At this, all the boys cheered and Michael
thought that this must be the signal for a general attack. A policeman
came along and took hold of him rather roughly. However, the boys who
had witnessed the fight explained matters to the constable and he was
allowed to go and the lads gave him three hearty cheers.
Michael got a job driving mules on a farm in Delaware State. He was
very lonely at first. He did not understand what the other-farm-hands
said, so there was very little he could do, except attend to his
duties and eat his meals in silence. He had to learn the American way
of doing things and sometimes he was roundly abused for being such a
“greenhorn.” A young girl on the farm taught him a good many English
words, and as his memory was excellent and his eagerness to learn
great, he soon was able to carry on simple conversations.
After a few months he left the farm hoping to find work in
Philadelphia. His search for work was fruitless, and he was almost down
to his last dollar when a farmer offered him a job in Maryland, which
he gladly accepted. At the end of a month he drew his wages and went
to New York. Here he found thousands of unemployed, but he secured a
job helping some sailors who were painting a ship. At the end of three
weeks he had thirty dollars in his pocket, and besides he had learned a
considerable amount about painting. He earned five dollars by painting
a baker’s wagon, and he managed to keep himself going by doing odd jobs
with the paint brush. As winter approached jobs became scarce, and
as his room was cold and cheerless, he spent most of his time walking
vigorously in order to keep warm. Then a bright idea struck him.
Instead of walking around aimlessly he followed the coal carts and when
they dropped the coal on the sidewalks--as they did then--he promptly
rang the door-bell and offered to transfer the coal to the cellar.
Often after putting the coal in its place he would suggest to the owner
that the cellar needed painting and would offer to do it. Many a job he
secured in this way, and while his living was somewhat precarious he
did not starve, and his room-rent was always paid on time.
Not far away from Michael’s lodgings was the Cooper Union, with its
fine library and evening classes for those who wished to improve their
education. He gladly took advantage of this and, no matter how hard he
had worked during the day, he was sure to be found eagerly scanning
books in the evenings and asking a hundred questions about things which
were not clear to him. During these days wherever he went he carried
with him a pocket dictionary and turned over its pages dozens of times
each day. He attended the church where the great Henry Ward Beecher
was preaching, and made a note of all the words he did not understand.
It is not to be wondered at that not only did he become well able to
carry on conversations in English, but that soon he had a much better
knowledge of that language than most boys born in America.
A permanent job in a biscuit factory gave him a chance to save some
money. He was only one of a squad of young people whose duties were
to punch the name of a firm upon the biscuits, but his willingness to
learn and his cheerfulness made him a general favourite and he soon had
several good friends. He joined the evening classes at Cooper Union,
and soon became intensely interested in electricity. He spent much of
his spare time in the boiler room of the biscuit factory and learned
from practical experience about many things which had puzzled him. His
progress in knowledge astonished even his best friends, and they began
to suggest to him the possibility of his entering Columbia University
as a student. To the poor Serbian boy this must have seemed almost an
impossibility, but the idea so strongly appealed to him that he worked
at his studies harder than ever and in the fall of 1879--just a little
over five years after he landed at New York, penniless, friendless,
and ignorant--Michael Pupin was enrolled as a student in Columbia
University.
He faced his college course with only three hundred and eleven dollars,
so that he knew he must win a number of prizes if he was to pay his
way and make good. At the close of the first year he won two one
hundred dollar prizes, one in Greek and the other in mathematics. This
achievement excited a great deal of interest among the students, who
were amazed to find themselves outstripped by a poor Serbian immigrant.
There was no jealousy, however; the students were good sports and
before long no one was more popular around the university than “Michael
the Serbian,” as he was generally called.
He made so much progress with his studies that soon he was able to earn
money by coaching students in mathematics and Greek. He also coached
many students who were called “lame ducks,” because they had failed in
their examinations. Many a poor “lame duck” managed to get through his
examinations simply because Michael Pupin took an interest in him. No
better evidence of his popularity is needed than to mention that he was
elected class president for his year. His hard work over his studies
did not prevent him from taking great interest in the college sports,
in many of which he excelled.
Michael Pupin received his diploma of bachelor of arts after a very
fine record at college. He had only been nine years in the United
States. None of his people were present at the ceremony when he
received his degree, but some friends sent him a basket of flowers and
Michael was very happy.
That same year he returned to visit his home in Serbia. When he was on
the train near Gaenserndorf he noticed a conductor who had been rude
to him and had called him a Serbian swine-herd when he was a poor lad
several years previous. The conductor did not recognise him, however,
and this time humbly addressed Michael as “Gracious sir.” There was
great excitement in the village of Idvor when he arrived. The meeting
with his mother was very tender. He went with her to his father’s grave
and as he told her of his experiences in America she greatly rejoiced.
The simple village folk of Idvor thought that Michael’s success would
have made him vain and that he would despise them, but when he observed
all the old Serbian customs, such as kissing the hands of the old
people, his modesty won their hearts and he became a great favourite.
From Idvor he went to Cambridge University in England, where for nearly
two years he continued his studies. There he came into close touch
with some of the world’s greatest mathematicians, and his interest
in electricity and kindred subjects became greater than ever. From
Cambridge he went to the University of Berlin, where he earned the
degree of doctor of philosophy. At that time--1889--the Department of
Electrical Engineering was established in Columbia University, and a
position as teacher was offered Michael Pupin. He accepted the offer
and hurried back to the United States to take up the duties of his
important position.
For many years Professor Michael Pupin has been one of the foremost
authorities in the world in the science of electrical engineering
and kindred subjects. Both by his speeches and by numerous magazine
articles he has become widely known, and, while he is known better in
America than elsewhere, something of his reputation has spread to other
lands. He has made many important discoveries! The vice-president of
the American Telephone and Telegraph Company said that one invention
of Professor Pupin’s had saved for that company at least one hundred
million dollars. He has received, many honours both from great
universities and from important scientific societies. Among such
honours are: the Elliot Cresson gold medal from the Franklin Institute;
the gold medal from the National Institute of Social Sciences; the
Edison medal of the American Institute of Electrical Engineers, the
Hebert prize from the French Academy. And so it happens that the poor,
ignorant Serbian boy, who landed in New York with only five cents in
his pocket, has become a scholar of whom not only is Serbia proud, but
the whole world delights to honour.