IT’S easy to be a success, as thousands of winners confess; no man’s so
obscure or unlucky or poor that he can’t be a winner, I guess. And
success, Mr. Man, doesn’t mean a roll that would stagger a queen, or
some gems of your own, or a palace of stone, or a wagon that burns
gasoline. A man’s a success, though renown doesn’t place on his forehead
a crown, if he pays as he goes, if it’s true that he owes not a red in
the dod-gasted town. A man’s a success if his wife finds comfort and
pleasure in life; if she’s glad and content that she married a gent
reluctant to organize strife. A man’s a success if his kids are joyous
as Katy H. Dids; if they’re handsome and neat, with good shoes on their
feet, and roses and things on their lids. A man’s a success if he tries
to be honest and kindly and wise; if he’s slow to repeat all the lies he
may meet, if he swats both the scandals and flies. I know when old
Gaffer Pete Gray one morning was taken away, by Death, lantern-jowled,
the whole village howled, and mourned him for many a day. Yet he was so
poor that he had but seldom the half of a scad; he tried to do good in
such ways as he could—he was a successful old lad!
[Illustration]
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