see, Dad, Red is a pretty good boy after all--it wasn't very long ago
that he was made Manager and he sometimes overlooks the fact that
more is now expected of him and we'll admit that some of his letters
do smack of the kindergarten, but he's sensible and we're trying to
teach him that we employ Managers to come to us _with_ a decision or
recommendation, not _for_ one; something that we can approve or show
him why it is impractical. In other words, to _think for us_, not we
for him. And again, we are trying to pound through that red pate of
his that stock he has is _his_ responsibility--must be moved in his
territory--not shipped to a more aggressive brother Manager.
“Don't you worry, Dad, Red has his faults, but he'll grow up.”
So I left, Red, feeling that your company was a little more tolerant
than I would be and I guess after all, I'll have to take some of the
blame for your last letter, in that you're my son, but when I read that
letter of yours--full of criticism, but strangely minus suggestions--I
couldn't help mutter, “Take off the rompers, Boy, take 'em off--get on
the long pants--you're a big boy now.”
Just remember--anyone can criticize, but the boy with the sensible
suggestion for improvement and the definite logical recommendation,
doesn't have to sit on the bench when they play the World's Series.
Goodnight Red--think it over.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Has Begun to Solicit Dad's Counsel_
Dear Hal:
Your last letter made me happier than I can begin to tell you. In it
you related some of your problems and really _asked_ advice. I was
beginning to think you are getting “fed up” on my unsolicited counsel
but feel complimented to know you now want more of it.
But, leaving the personal side out of it, you know, Red, the smart man
is the one who collects ideas from every one he meets, separates the
wheat from the chaff and then capitalizes them, and it's a sincere
pleasure for me to know that you've at last arrived at the age when you
are big enough to admit that when brains were passed around you didn't
get all of 'em.
So you're wondering what's the matter with your salesmen, eh? They
don't seem to take things seriously and worry whether they get business
or not--always looking forward to pay-day and that's all--eh, what? All
right--your description of their attitude is so good that I believe I
know just where the trouble is.
I suppose you were too young at the time to get the lesson, but, Red,
your case reminds me of something that used to happen regularly when
you were a little boy. Do you remember years ago when you used to
have that brindle pup? He wasn't much to look at--had no pedigree,
or anything, but was just plain dog--the kind whose only excuse for
living was that he was a playmate of a freckle-faced, red-headed boy.
Well, anyway, the little girl next door had a cat for a pet, if you'll
remember. Similarly to the dog, the cat hadn't taken any blue ribbons
and about the only thing she did worth mentioning now, at least, was
to notify the family that claimed her, ever so often, that she was the
proud mother of a mess, and I say it advisedly, Red, a mess of kittens.
But the Boss of the house didn't appreciate her being so prolific--not
being as interested in cat farms as our old friend Charlie Emery. So
ever so often, while you and the neighbor girl were out to a toddle
party, her father and myself would sneak down in their basement,
ostensibly to look over the last sad remnants of his private stock
(which is speaking in an unknown tongue to you now), but primarily to
increase the mortality list of the cat specie by holding each kitten
in the bottom of a pail of water until eight of their proverbial nine
lives had taken flight for cat heaven.
Now, Spud, your pup and Puss, the mother cat, were never what you
might call affinities. Even though the two families with whom they
were living were always close friends, the same measure of respect and
esteem was not shared by Spud and Puss. As a result, every time Spud
would spy Puss in the backyard he'd let out a mongrel yelp and start
for her with the obvious intention of annihilating her.
Now the thing that used to impress me about this almost daily scene was
that when Puss didn't have any kittens--no family responsibilities, as
it were--when Spud rushed for her she'd turn tail and do a double-quick
for the nearest tree, registering all the fear and retiring qualities
that we come to expect in the female of the species.
But when Puss had kittens, still undrowned, particularly when she was
enjoying a siesta in their presence, Spud could make his flying start
with all the gusto and bluff that is common to cur tactics, but when he
arrived at the point of contact Puss would bow her back, never budge
an inch and show all the courage of the early Spartans. The result,
of course, was that on such occasions the fun was all out of the game
for Spud and he was clearly “sold” on the proposition that Puss could
not be bluffed, and he'd beat a hasty retreat before getting within
paw-length of the confident Puss.
Now, Red, that's all there is to the story, except the _moral_. Just
consider the salient points. Same dog, same cat, same backyard, but
different performance. Why, Red, why? Ah!--you've got it, I know.
_Inspiration_--that's it--that's the word. Puss with kittens had an
inspiration that Puss without them didn't have.
Now, Boy, take this lesson right home with you and apply it to your
own problem. What your salesmen lack is _inspiration_, and you're the
little doctor with the hypodermic to give it to 'em. Of course, it
doesn't apply literally, even though some people do claim that the man
with the big family has as many more reasons as he has mouths to feed,
why he should make a success, but--I don't mean it that way, Red--I
don't mean it that way. You must teach your men to _speak_ and _feel_
about _your company as_ “We,” not as “the house.”
Any man with a single spark of ambition should look forward to an
eventual goal, considerably farther than the weekly pay-check. His
permanency on their payroll and the advancement he should hope to
merit, depends entirely upon the combined efforts of the company
family. His success is their success, and without favorable results
neither he, nor they, can prosper.
_Teach 'em, Red--show 'em their responsibility!_ Fire their minds and
hearts with the fact that they're not working for the company--bless
your heart, Boy, they _are_ the company to all intent and purpose on
their territory, and either their lackadaisical or their aggressive,
businesslike demeanor and actions will be interpreted by their trade
exactly as they appear and the company will be so reflected. And when
you tell 'em, Red, be sure that the _enthusiasm_ you have, which as you
know, is the fuse that ignites _opportunity_, is showing in your eyes,
your face and is reflected from your heart. _Enthusiasm--Inspiration._
Ah! Red, it's contagious--show 'em how proud you are to say
“_We_”--show 'em that it's a privilege to be a part of an organization
that holds the place it does in the firmament of a big business. _Sell
'em the company idea first_--then sell 'em the line.
After that, Red, if I'm not mistaken, you'll have 'em sitting on the
edge of the chair, rarin' to go, filled with the kind of red-blooded
courage that has made American ideas and American ideals a synonym for
accomplishment.
If you sell your salesmen all that, Old Top, and keep 'em sold by your
living example, I don't think you'll have to worry about the results
they turn in. If that doesn't work, then the Old Man's experience with
human nature is a failure and he'll be disappointed in his own judgment
and the ability of his fire-brand son.
Keep me posted--I like it.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Has Told Dad of His Latest Pet “Peeve”_
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have a lot of fun before we open each of your letters,
speculating on whether or not you're going to tell us of some unusual
accomplishment, or air a pet peeve. So far, the peeves you've aired
have been so imaginary that we have enjoyed them just as much as your
successes, so don't harbor the thought that we'd attempt to discourage
your letter-writing style for a moment. In fact, Mother thinks that
my chief enjoyment these days is giving you advice in answer to the
problems you mention and I guess she's not so far off, at that--Mother
never is, you know.
So you're all “het up” and about ready to quit over the fact that
the boss has put a “District Manager” or “General Man” over you, eh?
You're not going to stand for all this “supervision;” if you're not
capable of running your branch and working direct with Chicago, you
want to know it--eh? And especially, do you want 'em to know that
you're every bit as capable as the fellow they picked out as your
so-called superior--and just where do they get all these new-fangled
notions about supervision. Of course, Mr. So and So is a nice fellow
personally, but you just don't intend to be bossed by anyone except the
General Sales Manager himself and this and that, and this and that, and
this and that!!! Whew! Gee! but our cat's got a long tail.
You know, Red, really you furnish me a lot of amusement. All I have to
do to thoroughly enjoy myself after reading a letter like yours is to
light up an old jimmy-pipe, get in the old arm chair, close my eyes and
live over again the old days when you were a little shaver about nine
years old. Whenever that white-headed brother of yours would get into
a game of marbles or a checker game with you and Junior would begin
to get a little the best of you, you'd throw one of those red-headed,
temperamental fits of yours, kick over the checker-board, throw away
your marbles, toss that vermillion mane in the air, chew up a couple of
lead pencils and swear by all the by-laws of Huckleberry Finn and Tom
Sawyer that you'd be tetotally dod-buttered and ding-busted if you'd
ever play a game with him again.
The amusing part about it, Red, was that it was only a brain storm that
I used to attribute to your general fiery disposition, for in less than
five minutes you'd forgotten all the vindictive utterances and were
playing with the brother again just as sweet and happy as you please.
Yes, it was funny, Boy, and I used to get many a good laugh, but
Red, when you put one of 'em on paper at your age, I'll have to admit
the only way I get a laugh is to try to think of you as a kid. As a
kid, it was truly laughable, but for a fellow as big and as old as
you are now--LONG PANTS--hair on your upper lip and wearing a vest
n'everything--on the level Red, you're as funny as an epileptic
fit--you're pitiful!
Now listen, Old Top, before you make up your mind to walk out and leave
the company lying on its back gasping--just sit down a minute and
let's talk this over. You've got all the confidence in the world in
the “Big Boss” haven't you? You think pretty well of his judgment and
wouldn't put yours up as being superior to it for a minute, now would
you? Of course not! Now just let this thought ooze into that corrugated
cast-iron brain of yours--your company isn't running a peanut stand any
more--they might have been small enough one day when the Boss himself
could put up the window-shades and sweep out the office every night,
but that time has passed, Boy, that day is gone.
Admitting that, doesn't it occur to you that the Boss has to have a
little help in running the business? No one ever made a success of any
business if he didn't attend to it; if he didn't know what was going on
all the time. You'd think anyone a lunatic who expected you to sell all
the goods handled through your branch, deliver them yourself and do
all the billing. You'd say it just couldn't be done, which is true and
then you'd go on and sketch how you'd organize a force to do all of it
with your help, of course, and you'd know what's going on every minute.
All right--now doesn't it dawn on you that you are expecting the Big
Boss to be as ridiculous as the suggestion about your doing all the
work in your branch, when you voice those one-quarter of one per cent
sentiments, criticising him for calling in help to handle a far more
complex problem than your little unit?
The General Sales Manager of a company like yours, which does business
in all parts of the world, has a pretty big task cut out for him.
You may be a conscientious, intelligent, hard-working manager, but
you're human, Red, and being human, you're not always one hundred per
cent right and it's his job to know all about you and the way you're
handling your business, all the time. You're not foolish enough to
think he can keep in as close touch as would be necessary to know all
these things, with scores of branches, are you? Of course not! Well,
all right then, just how is he going to do it? You know the answer
just as well as I do--so granting that help is necessary and that he
has to have someone to be his “eyes” in the field--who's going to do
it and what would YOU call the position? The answer is obvious--he
must have “District Managers” and if you were the Boss just who would
you pick as a District Manager? I know just what you're going to say,
so I'll say it first. Of course, he could pick the oldest managers on
the force--and their experience would make good District Managers of
them--mind you, but that would be wishing an awful hard job on those
old fellows who deserve to take it easier than they could on a District
Manager's job. The older managers have arrived at a place in life where
they don't want to spend fifteen nights out of thirty on a Pullman and
you cannot blame 'em.
The District Manager's title may sound awfully nice, but it's no
flowery bed of ease, Red, believe me. All right then, if that's
impractical, what is the answer? I'll tell you--they pick men who have
had a broad experience in the game; men who have had good reputations
as good housekeepers; men who know how to analyze branch house expense
as well as sales results; men who are so constituted that they can
give REAL HELP to a manager who is intelligent enough to use the
experience and advice that is thus afforded. It's no reflection against
your intelligence and ability to have one of 'em over you--why bless
your old red-headed soul, the only man in this life who don't need
supervision, that I know of, is a wooden Indian in front of a cigar
store. He's bolted down--no brains--just a wooden man! Why even the
officers of a company have supervision in the board of directors
and back of the board are the stockholders, and boy, they're some
supervisors.
And Red, don't let anyone of human intelligence overhear you question
the ability of the man supervising--don't you know when you do that,
you're questioning the judgment of the Big Boss himself and Boy, you
mustn't do that because you're old enough to know better. Just put
this in your pipe, Old Top, anybody nowadays who's holding a job that
requires ability, has got it tucked away around his system some place,
I'll admit that sometimes it's pretty hard for a youngster to see, but
it's there, Boy, it's there. Some day you'll be a District Manager if
you'll just quit standing on your own foot.
After thinking over what I've said, if you still feel like you did when
you wrote your letter, go ahead and send in your resignation--they'll
accept it and not pass any dividends either. I'm hoping however, that
your letter was just a recurrence of one of your childish temperamental
fits and if so, I'll laugh at it just like I used to. If not, I suppose
I'll have to go down and try and find a job for you driving a hack, so
please don't make it hard for
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Has Met the Girl--He Sounds Dad Out on Matrimony_
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have had several executive sessions since receiving your
last letter, and you can well imagine that I've received a lot of
“advice” from her as to just how to answer it, but it's no use--the
Good Lord so constituted me that I have to “speak right out in meeting”
if at all, so if I'm going to advise you along the line you requested,
I've just got to tell you how I feel about it without reservation, so
here goes!
You didn't tell us much in your letter about how far this affair of
yours had gone and it makes it a little difficult on that account. You
talk like there's nothing “serious” yet and that you're just wondering
about certain “features” of Life's greatest adventure. Well, I hope
you're not kidding the “old man,” for I'm too old a bird to know that
if you're all through with the overture, prologue and the medley of
popular airs between the first and second act, that it's too late for
me to try and break up the party, so if you're telling me the truth,
the few words of advice I'll give may fall on fertile ground, but
if not, Boy, it may sting a little, but anyway, you've brought it on
yourself, as Delilah remarked to Sampson when he started the rough
house in the Temple.
I have half a notion to send your letter back to you just to show you
how little you really told us about Her. About all I've been able to
gather, after reading your letter about five times, is that she's about
the finest thing in petticoats that ever wielded a lipstick; comes from
“an awfully old and respected family;” is the only child; has been
raised a pet; is beautiful and accomplished (presume you mean by that,
she can dress herself with the assistance of a couple of maids) and her
“old man” has oodles of money. Humph! somehow that description don't
thrill me a bit!
Now, Red, before you begin to get red above the collar-band, just let
me say in passing that I don't mean anything personal about the girl
at all--she cannot help it because she's that way, and there's just
a chance that I've got her all wrong. No doubt she's all you said
about her and then some, but if she is, I'm just wondering if you
accidentally picked up a white chip on the floor, or just how you came
to get a hand in the game?
Not that there's anything about it that isn't good enough for anyone of
that description--no--far be it from me, Red, to run down the quality
of your personal line, but your description doesn't mean anything to
a fellow who has lived long enough to know that there's something more
to this life than moonlight and honeysuckle. I can almost hear you say
that the “old man” is hard-boiled, maybe I am, but there's a practical
side to this matrimonial game and it is a pretty good thing to consider
seriously before you go into the musical comedy features.
Now let's discuss this thing from a sensible standpoint. This “old and
respected family” business is a nice thing, Red, but it will not add a
single item to the order you get from the wholesale grocer around the
corner: What does she know about sewing buttons on a union suit so you
will not have to use up a whole card of safety pins? I've found that
knowledge fairly essential in cold weather.
She's an “only child”--a “pet,” eh? Well, that's fine, Red. It's nice
to know that you will not have a couple of “old maid” sisters-in-law to
help you ride range and boss the outfit, but does she show any signs of
being ambitious enough to get up at 6:30 A. M. and cook breakfast for
you, or do you think you'd have to go around to the Greasy Greek's for
your coffee and? Maybe that thought hasn't occurred to you, especially
when standing under a Southern Moon when the Zephyrs waft the odor of
the Lilacs; but, Boy, the Zephyrs should some day waft the odor of a
few pieces of bacon with you on the receiving end in your own dining
room, and you'll appreciate that more and more as your pompadour
recedes.
I like that part of your description where you say she's beautiful and
accomplished. That means a lot, Boy, but am wondering if you mean it
the way I'd like to believe. God never made anything more beautiful
than a good woman. She's His Masterpiece, all right--there's no doubt
about that, but some folks' idea of beauty is different from mine. The
cleverest word painter who ever wrote a massage cream ad, couldn't
commence to picture that beauty--that beggars description--that
rapturous smile that is born of the very whispering of angels which
lights a mother's face when she hears the first cry of her new-born
babe. Beauty--why, Boy--the symmetry or form and feature of a Venus
pales into insignificance beside it, and the funny thing about it is no
one woman, or type, has a corner on it. Of course, you've never dreamed
of that example, but it's coming to you, Boy, it's coming to you.
And “accomplished”--well, what do you mean by that? Has she taken
a post-graduate course in Victrola lessons, can toddle and sing in
Society's amateur “Follies,” or do you mean you think she could
some day referee a bout between a couple of lusty-lunged seven and
ten-year-old boys, croon a lullaby to a nursing baby and keep the
Sunday roast from burning, all at the same time? I'll say you want to
get one that's “accomplished,” but it's a damsite more important to
visualize just what they could “accomplish” later, than what has gone
before.
Note you say “her old man has oodles of money,” but you forgot to
mention whether he was a burglar, a politician, or a flat owner--not
that there's very much difference, but I was sort of curious. Anyway,
as I see it, that's the least important thing in your description.
The “old man” may be a decent sort, after all, and may have got it by
marriage or from one of Ryan's tips on the stock market, so it may not
be his fault. At least, I don't see how that's going to affect you
in the least. I know you well enough to know, Red, that you'll never
become one of those parasites who, on account of having money in the
family, find their most arduous duty the daily airing of a poodle dog
on a string--neither can I picture you under any circumstances paying
your cigarette bills with other than the coin you had personally
earned, so I'm not going to comment on that feature.
Now listen, Red, I expect you think that I've been pretty caustic in
the foregoing, and in order to let you win an argument I'll agree; but,
Boy, this marriage thing is a more serious problem than you think it
is. I appreciate that there are a great many requisites to look for in
a wife that I haven't enumerated above. It goes without saying that
you will choose eventually a girl fully worthy of you in intelligence,
beauty, lineage and what not, but I do want you to come down out of the
clouds--realize that there's something more to it than love and kisses
and a cottage.
Remember the girl you choose will sit across the table from you for
thousands of dinners. She may look awfully good in a party dress, but
will she show up as well in a Mother Hubbard with her hair in curl
papers? She may make an exquisite Welsh rarebit, but can she brew a
real cup of coffee? She may be charming in the receiving line at an
afternoon function, but can she build a satisfactory pair of rompers?
I've sort of born down on one feature, Red--I've done so advisedly,
because in my opinion the deciding question, after all is said and
done, is, “What kind of a mother will she make for my children?” If
you can honestly answer that question and give a favorable one, the
rest will take care of themselves, Boy--the rest will take care of
themselves.
And, after reading this, Red, if the idea should come to you that
maybe the “old man” don't know what he's talking about, just stop a
minute--pause, Boy, and consider that it took some little picker to
choose one who has come up to every one of these qualifications--your
Mother! and the other half of the sketch knows that he'll always be
proud to sign himself
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Has Been Bragging a Little_
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have had quite a discussion tonight about your last letter
and we've just about come to the conclusion that you're eating too much
rooster meat, or something else with similar effect, for your last
letter certainly shows that you're getting “cocky.” Of course, you may
have reason to be, on account of something you're holding back. Maybe
Mother and I don't quite appreciate just how important you really are,
but anyway the local cigar man hasn't displayed any cigar boxes with
your pictures on 'em yet, so we're forced to assume that you're just
feeling your oats a bit.