Having conquered my fears and tasted adventure, I was hungry now for
more. My wife felt the change in me when I saw her that evening in
Brooklyn. In fact, she has always declared that it was the influence
which I brought into the house that night-the feeling of new vigor
and of new hope-that made George take a turn for the better and get
well.
As usual, on my Brooklyn subway trip, I read the want advertisements
in the evening papers. An office over in a small New Jersey town was
advertising for a printer! I read it two or three times. But if I had
not taken that Central Park adventure trip, I don’t believe I should
have answered this advertisement. I had never thought of going to New
Jersey to look for a job. I felt all the self-centred New Yorker’s
prejudices against New Jersey. But I did go. I was up and on my way
early the next morning.
And that was how I happened to meet Ben Hutchins and find my life’s
big opportunity.
The first time I saw Ben Hutchins, I laughed. I knew at once that he
was a crank. He was an old-school printer, like myself. For years
he had run this little job office and published a weekly newspaper.
Afterwards, I learned that he had plenty of money-was, in fact,
rich-and that the only reason he kept on publishing his paper was
that he didn’t quite know how to get out of the habit.
His little old one-story building stood off by itself, in the
business section of this small New Jersey town. To get to it, you
had to cross a bridge and follow a narrow dirt path. The path this
morning was muddy, after a short flurry of wet snow. The paint
was worn off the building. One of the old-fashioned shutters was
loose and flapped in the November wind. On the roof was a rooster
weather-vane that looked as if it might have been crowing into the
teeth of a half-century of storms.
I opened the door and went in. It was one large room-a typical,
old-fashioned, country-newspaper office. Its assortment of junk
looked as if it might have been accumulating there since the American
Revolution. An antiquated roll-topped desk stood in the corner, by
one of the front windows. A tipsy old swivel-chair stood in front
of it. Near it, a lop-sided old waste-basket spilled its overload
of newspapers on the floor. In the centre of the room a rusty
base-burner stove glowed with a red-hot coal fire.
Ben Hutchins, in his shirt-sleeves, and wearing a printer’s dirty
apron, stood in front of one of the cases, setting type. He was a
stockily built man of about seventy, with a belligerent shock of gray
hair that stood up straight on his head.
When I entered, he waited to space out a line before recognizing my
presence. Then he turned and glowered at me over his glasses, which
hung on the tip of his bulbous nose.
“Well-?” he said, finally, after a critical sniff.
Then, as I said, I laughed-a laugh born of my feeling of new
confidence, gained from the teachings of the Voice. It caught Ben
Hutchins’s interest and made him take a liking to me from the start.
I have learned that he is very quick and very decided in his likes
and dislikes. In fact, he never does anything half-way. He is either
stubbornly for a thing or against it. No argument can ever convince
him either way. And down under all his surface peculiarities he has
a keen and most original sense of humor. It was the liking that he
conceived for me from the start which made him let me do the things
that I have done.
He gave me again the once-over; then he, too, indulged in a faint
grin.
“I’ve come for that job,” I informed him, with all my new courage of
adventure. “And I’m just the man you’re looking for.”
“Oh, are you?” and he gave another of his critical sniffs, which I
soon discovered to be habitual. “Well, come and sit down, and we’ll
see. I may not be of your opinion.”
With his composing-stick still in his hand, he led the way to the
corner where stood the ancient roll-top desk. He seated himself
heavily in the creaking swivel-chair, and I pulled up another old
chair that stood near. All this time he was studying me closely over
his glasses.
“I’ve got the reputation,” he told me, after I was seated, “of never
keeping a man very long.”
He waited to see if this was going to discourage me any. But it
didn’t, and so he went on to say:-
“But the ones that come out here for a job are generally no good. Or,
if they are, they get discouraged and don’t want to stay.”
“Well, I’m going to stay,” I said, “you can’t get rid of me. And I’m
all to the good.”
Again he met my laughing gaze, and again he grinned. Then after
studying me once more, he came to a decision. He rheumatically pulled
himself to his feet and said:-
“Well, take off your coat and go to work.”
And that ended our conference. We made no sort of bargain, said
nothing whatever about the pay I was to get, or what I was expected
to do. It was like Ben Hutchins-that snap sort of conclusion. But
once he has made up his mind, you may be sure that he will carry his
part of the bargain to the end. Of course, I had to learn this about
him. I thought then that he was just going to try me out, give me a
chance to make good if I could.
I took off my overcoat and other coat, and hung them up with my hat.
Then I found another printer’s dirty apron, and started in to work.
It may be hard to understand how a man, after having been employed
for years in one of New York’s big printing-plants, should have
finally found his life’s opportunity in that little country
junk-shop of a printing-office. But that is what I did. I could not
have done so, however, without having had the experience of the
previous few days, as well as the new lessons I was learning all the
time from the Voice.
_It was because I was finding youth that I found my opportunity._
Youth, which is courageous, venturesome, progressive, optimistic, and
_creative_! Cowardly old age, pessimistic, stagnant, and traveling in
ruts, never finds a big life-opportunity.
V
I had been at my new job two weeks. We had issued two editions of the
weekly paper. I had done the work of editor, reporter, compositor,
proof-reader, pressman, and mailing clerk. Every day I was growing
more and more in love with my job. I whistled again like a boy, at my
work-this, in spite of the fact that I was taking that long trip each
night and morning to and from New York. It is not work-the kind that
is made creative-but stagnation, which wearies.
New demands were stirring every part of my being into new activities.
My faculties were all alert. So were my emotions, my imaginations,
_and my sense of humor_. Values were being aroused in me that, for
lack of something to call them into use, had all my life been lying
dormant. I had never known that I could do some of the things which
I now did. I had begun to take an interest in national and world
affairs, about which I had to furnish copy. I also had begun to take
more interest in people.
For years, when making my daily trips on the Elevated, I had most
of the time kept my eyes glued to the latest criminal sensation in
the newspapers. When I was not reading a newspaper, my thoughts were
occupied with my own small interests.
The thing always of big importance was that I should beat someone
else to a seat in the car. But now I began to watch and study that
mass of humanity packed into the car with me. The mass resolved
itself into individual beings. I picked out those having the old-age
spirit from the ones who had the spirit of youth. By far the larger
number-regardless of the years they had lived-were caught in the grip
of the old-age fear, and were traveling in the old-age ruts. A good
many, like little Miss Marsh, were trying to camouflage their old age
by artificial means.
A new sympathy began to warm in my heart for mankind-so pitiably
ignorant of Life and of the ways to gain its _real_ joys. My New
Yorker’s reserve began to relax, and I let myself do little helpful
things for my fellow travelers. One night I helped an old East-Side
Jew struggling under a load of second-hand clothing. The poor old
chap’s surprised smile of appreciation brought a quick lump into my
throat; and a kindlier feeling for the whole Jewish race warmed in my
heart. I was growing tensely interested, too, in all the doings of
our little New Jersey town. Each day I was making new friends. All of
which meant a vitalizing of my heart’s stagnation.
My son George was well again, and had gone back to his work.
Mattie-my wife-had come home. I had rented a small house not far from
the printing-office, and we were getting ready to move to New Jersey.
Then, after I had been working for him two weeks, Ben Hutchins was
seized with a bad attack of lumbago, and was laid up at home for a
month. At the end of that time his daughter had persuaded him to go
to California and spend the rest of the winter.
When he reached a final decision relative to this California trip, he
sent for me to come and see him. I had been several times, during his
sickness, to the big, old-fashioned house, where he lived with his
widowed daughter. His wife was dead. When I went now we had another
of our brief talks. He was going to leave the printing-plant entirely
up to me.
“Run it as well as you can, and keep me posted how you’re coming on.”
He gave no further instructions. But by this time I had learned that
he liked to be met in his own brief way of doing business-never
wanted any fuss of words; when he felt justified in trusting a man,
he trusted him absolutely. And I knew now that he felt this trust in
me. When, on leaving, I shook hands with him, I gave him a tight grip
of appreciation, and we exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
I had already hired another printer. And Mattie, now that we had
moved over to our new home, came every day to the office and helped.
I made a number of changes in the old plant. I even put into
operation some of the modern efficiency methods which I had scorned
in the New York plant. Our job printing was growing; and we were
getting new subscribers and more advertising for the newspaper.
One day a peculiar thing happened. I had run over to New York, to get
some new parts for our old press. This errand took me down town, in
the neighborhood of the Sixth Avenue Elevated station, which had been
a part of my daily rut for so many years. The sight of it now took me
back to the day when I got my discharge. I smiled when I thought of
how helpless I had stood there in the rain. It made me realize how
far from the old rut I had traveled.
Then I thought of the old chap who had sold newspapers, and wondered
if he was still working on his beat. I looked about for him and,
sure enough, there he was, wearing the same ancient discolored straw
hat. I followed and spoke to him. I had lost all fear now of being
submerged in his old-age class. It was noon, and I asked him to go
to lunch with me. He gazed in a daze of questioning surprise, then
accepted the invitation.
I took him to a quiet little place, where we might have a table
to ourselves. During the meal I learned more about him. His name
was James Shaw, and he was alone in the world. He talked well-used
good English. I had always felt that there must be something of
intelligence back of his good clean teeth. And he, too, _was an old
printer_. Probably that was why he had drifted naturally to the
selling of newspapers. It is hard for a printer to keep away from the
smell of printer’s ink.
Well, the upshot of it was that I hired Jimmy Shaw, and took him back
with me to New Jersey. And Jimmy has made good. After he was barbered
and had put on a new suit of clothes, and had his first lessons in
Finding Youth, he was as spry and dudish as anything on Broadway.
Then, the final Big Adventure was brought about by my articles in our
weekly newspaper.
I had been running a series of articles on my Finding-Youth
revelations. Some of them were copied in other newspapers. Ben
Hutchins, out in California, read them in our own paper, which we
sent him each week. Afterwards, his daughter told me that he showed
them to the different guests in the hotel where they were stopping.
Then I wrote an article on the old-age problem. I headed it, “Why
the Dump-Heap?” Among other things, I said that one of the biggest
social wastes was the waste of the latter years of the lives of men
and women. Instead of being a waste product at eighty, a man should
be a Life masterpiece-_still creative_. But we cling-theoretically,
at least-to the savage belief that man possesses no other creative
power than the sex-function; and that, after they have passed the
age of race-propagation, men and women are of no further social use.
Savages, not knowing what else to do with their people of years, kill
them. We let them stagnate.
By this time we should have learned that Life here, and always, is a
thing creative. We are incidentally parents. We are creators always.
For if God made us in His own image, then He made us all creators. As
creators, we grow. And growth is the law of life. Stagnation is decay
and death. We must have new educational methods. We must have new
ideals-a new heaven. And this new heaven will be a place filled with
creators, instead of with stagnant resters.
Then I went on to suggest that society might organize Youthland
colonies, instead of relegating each year so many thousands of men
and women to the fate of dependence and stagnation. These colonies
might be made centres of big usefulness, of broad education and
creative growth.
I outlined my scheme of a Youthland colony. It should be a place of
individual homes, with certain coöperative community buildings-an
auditorium and recreation centre, a hotel and laundry, and other
things, to make living easier and cheaper. The members of the colony
themselves would support all these institutions. For there would be
different light industries for the ones who wished to work and earn
their own living.
There would be lectures, music, dancing, and classes in science,
sociology, politics, psychology, literature, languages, and the arts.
Everyone would be given the chance and encouraged to take up any kind
of creative work in which he might feel himself capable of qualifying.
Well, Ben Hutchins read this article, and it struck instant fire in
him. He didn’t even wait to write. Instead he telegraphed:-
“Youthland colony good scheme. California right place to start one.
Am writing my lawyer to sell printing-plant. You come out here.”
I laughed. Of course I had no idea that he really meant this. I had
believed everything that I had written about my colony, but I had
painted it with my own imagination. Then I worried. He might be
taking this way of selling his plant and letting me out. I lay awake
nights, trying to figure some scheme whereby I myself might make a
small payment and get hold of the plant.
I had a proposition all framed, when I received a letter from
Hutchins. It was-for him-a long letter, dictated to a stenographer.
In it he gave me to understand that he was in earnest about the
Youthland colony scheme. Indeed, he had already bought a tract of
land and was setting to work on the project. He wrote a lot of
instructions: informed me that, if he could not sell the newspaper to
advantage, he meant to have the plant shipped to California. It would
be a necessary adjunct to the colony. He was enthusiastic. His health
had greatly improved; he was in love with California, and both he
and his daughter wanted to stay there. But he must have something
with which to busy himself; and this colony scheme had made a big hit
with him.
* * * * *
Well, that is how our California Youthland Colony came into
existence. It is another story, but I must tell you a few things
about it. It is located in a beautiful spot-where “the ocean and the
mountains meet.”
We are now a group of five hundred, all owning our own homes. Some
of these homes are larger and more pretentious than others; for some
of our colony members have good big incomes. Others are poor. But we
are all inspired by the same ideals. The poorer ones are given the
opportunity to pay for their homes on easy monthly installments.
We have a small canning factory; and we make a fine grade of candied
California fruits. We do some rug-weaving and pottery work. We have
a dairy and poultry yards. All of these industries are coöperative
in character-owned in common. The same is true of our small inn and
laundry. They give employment to the ones who want to make their
living. But we have no drones. Every Youthlander works. He also
plays. Some devote themselves to raising small-fruits and English
walnuts on their individual land tracts. Some teach in our school.
We have all kinds of classes in our school. We have expert
instruction in diet, exercise, rest, and the things which make for
the best physical condition. It is my intention to incorporate some
of these lessons in another book-the methods which we have worked
out to our own advantage. We have almost no sickness. Our members
are a vigorous, useful, busy lot of folks. They live out-of-door
lives twelve months of the year. They are filled with all sorts of
progressive interests. _They think right thoughts._ In connection
with our physical work, we have dancing classes, also a hiking club
that makes interesting trips.
An ex-college president has charge of our educational work. A retired
manufacturer is general director of our industries. And these two
men are not using any back-number methods. Both are inspired by the
spirit of youth. They combine with the modern the best values brought
out of their long experience.
Some of our members have been encouraged to write. A number are
studying music. Mattie, my wife, is enjoying that privilege. One
woman of seventy, who never before had the time or chance to
study the piano, has displayed considerable musical ability. In a
good-sized French class, no member is under sixty. And there are two
art classes.
Ben Hutchins is the colony’s shrewd buyer. He drives his own car out
through the country, and contracts for the fruit that is put up in
our cannery. They made me the first colony president, and each year
have insisted on reëlecting me. Next year I am going to decline. I
don’t want to get into the presidential rut. Jimmy Shaw is foreman of
the job department in our printery. Jimmy has had a romance which he
has given me permission to tell some time.
My son George and his family are with us. This year we are expecting
Walter and his family for a visit. I was able also to bring Miss
Marsh out to our colony. I feel that I owe her a very big debt.
Miss Marsh has let her hair grow gray; and the color now in her
cheeks has been put there by the Californian sunshine. But she
looks years younger than when she was trying to live an artificial
youth. She is, in fact, quite radiant. For she is satisfying a
big heart-hunger. My wife always contended that she was a lonely
little creature. But even Mattie was surprised to discover that
Miss Marsh’s loneliness was due to a craving motherhood. She is
now one of the nurses who have the care of the colony’s children.
For we have about thirty children-orphans who would have been sent
to state institutions. We have adopted them, and are bringing them
up and educating them. We father and mother, uncle and aunt, and
grandfather and grandmother them. Happy little Miss Marsh is seldom
seen without one of our colony babies in her arms.