If

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not grow tired by waiting

Or, being lied about don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good or talk too wise;

If you can dream and not make dreams your master,

If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with triumph and disaster,

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can stand to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by Knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the work you've given your life to broken,

And stoop and build it up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one pile of all your winnings

And risk it at one game of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again from your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss,

If you can force you heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on, though there is nothing in you

Except the will that says to them, "Hold on!"

If you can talk to crowds and keep your virtue,

And walk with Kings nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Copied out from memory by Rudyard Kipling.

Batemons: Sept. 1913

for E.W. Bok on his 50th Birthday

It was on Bok's fiftieth birthday that Kipling sent him a copy of "If."

Bok had greatly admired this poem, but knowing Kipling's distaste for

writing out his own work, he had resisted the strong desire to ask him

for a copy of it. It is significant of the author's remarkable memory

that he wrote it, as he said, "from memory," years after its

publication, and yet a comparison of the copy with the printed form,

corrected by Kipling, fails to discover the difference of a single word.

The lecture bureaus now desired that Edward Bok should go on the

platform. Bok had never appeared in the role of a lecturer, but he

reasoned that through the medium of the rostrum he might come in closer

contact with the American public, meet his readers personally, and

secure some first-hand constructive criticism of his work. This last he

was always encouraging. It was a naive conception of a lecture tour, but

Bok believed it and he contracted for a tour beginning at Richmond,

Virginia, and continuing through the South and Southwest as far as Saint

Joseph, Missouri, and then back home by way of the Middle West.

Large audiences greeted him wherever he went, but he had not gone far on

his tour when he realized that he was not getting what he thought he

would. There was much entertaining and lionizing, but nothing to help

him in his work by pointing out to him where he could better it. He

shrank from the pitiless publicity that was inevitable; he became more

and more self-conscious when during the first five minutes on the stage

he felt the hundreds of opera-glasses levelled at him, and he and Mrs.

Bok, who accompanied him, had not a moment to themselves from early

morning to midnight. Yet his large correspondence was following him from

the office, and the inevitable invitations in each city had at least to

be acknowledged. Bok realized he had miscalculated the benefits of a

lecture tour to his work, and began hopefully to wish for the ending of

the circuit.

One afternoon as he was returning with his manager from a large

reception, the "impresario" said to him: "I don't like these receptions.

They hurt the house."

"The house?" echoed Bok.

"Yes, the attendance."

"But you told me the house for this evening was sold out?" said the

lecturer.

"That is true enough. House, and even the stage. Not a seat unsold. But

hundreds just come to see you and not to hear your lecture, and this

exposure of a lecturer at so crowded a reception as this, before the

talk, satisfies the people without their buying a ticket. My rule is

that a lecturer should not be seen in public before his lecture, and I

wish you would let me enforce the rule with you. It wears you out,

anyway, and no receptions until afterward will give you more time for

yourself and save your vitality for the talk."

Bok was entirely acquiescent. He had no personal taste for the continued

round of functions, but he had accepted it as part of the game.

The idea from this talk that impressed Bok, however, with particular

force, was that the people who crowded his houses came to see him and

not to hear his lecture. Personal curiosity, in other words. This was a

new thought. He had been too busy to think of his personality; now he

realized a different angle to the situation. And, much to his manager's

astonishment, two days afterwards Bok refused to sign an agreement for

another tour later in the year. He had had enough of exhibiting himself

as a curiosity. He continued his tour; but before its conclusion fell

ill--a misfortune with a pleasant side to it, for three of his

engagements had to be cancelled.

The Saint Joseph engagement could not be cancelled. The house had been

oversold; it was for the benefit of a local charity which besought Bok

by wire after wire to keep a postponed date. He agreed, and he went. He

realized that he was not well, but he did not realize the extent of his

mental and physical exhaustion until he came out on the platform and

faced the crowded auditorium. Barely sufficient space had been left for

him and for the speaker's desk; the people on the stage were close to

him, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

Then, to his consternation, it suddenly dawned upon him that his tired

mind had played a serious trick on him. He did not remember a line of

his lecture; he could not even recall how it began! He arose, after his

introduction, in a bath of cold perspiration. The applause gave him a

moment to recover himself, but not a word came to his mind. He sparred

for time by some informal prefatory remarks expressing regret at his

illness and that he had been compelled to disappoint his audience a few

days before, and then he stood helpless! In sheer desperation he looked

at Mrs. Bok sitting in the stage box, who, divining her husband's

plight, motioned to the inside pocket of his coat. He put his hand there

and pulled out a copy of his lecture which she had placed there! The

whole tragic comedy had happened so quickly that the audience was

absolutely unaware of what had occurred, and Bok went on and practically

read his lecture. But it was not a successful evening for his audience

or for himself, and the one was doubtless as glad when it was over as

the other.

When he reached home, he was convinced that he had had enough of

lecturing! He had to make a second short tour, however, for which he had

contracted with another manager before embarking on the first. This tour

took him to Indianapolis, and after the lecture, James Whitcomb Riley

gave him a supper. There were some thirty men in the party; the affair

was an exceedingly happy one; the happiest that Bok had attended. He

said this to Riley on the way to the hotel.

"Usually," said Bok, "men, for some reason or other, hold aloof from me

on these lecture tours. They stand at a distance and eye me, and I see

wonder on their faces rather than a desire to mix."

"You've noticed that, then?" smilingly asked the poet.

"Yes, and I can't quite get it. At home, my friends are men. Why should

it be different in other cities?"

"I'll tell you," said Riley. "Five or six of the men you met to-night

were loath to come. When I pinned them down to their reason, it was I

thought: they regard you as an effeminate being, a sissy."

"Good heavens!" interrupted Bok.

"Fact," said Riley, "and you can't wonder at it nor blame them. You have

been most industriously paragraphed, in countless jests, about your

penchant for pink teas, your expert knowledge of tatting, crocheting,

and all that sort of stuff. Look what Eugene Field has done in that

direction. These paragraphs have, doubtless, been good advertising for

your magazine, and, in a way, for you. But, on the other hand, they have

given a false impression of you. Men have taken these paragraphs

seriously and they think of you as the man pictured in them. It's a

fact; I know. It's all right after they meet you and get your measure.

The joke then is on them. Four of the men I fairly dragged to the dinner

this evening said this to me just before I left. That is one reason why

I advise you to keep on lecturing. Get around and show yourself, and

correct this universal impression. Not that you can't stand when men

think of you, but it's unpleasant."

It was unpleasant, but Bok decided that the solution as found in

lecturing was worse than the misconception. From that day to this he

never lectured again.

But the public conception of himself, especially that of men, awakened

his interest and amusement. Some of his friends on the press were still

busy with their paragraphs, and he promptly called a halt and asked them

to desist. "Enough was as good as a feast," he told them, and explained

why.

One day Bok got a distinctly amusing line on himself from a chance

stranger. He was riding from Washington to Philadelphia in the smoking

compartment, when the newsboy stuck his head in the door and yelled:

"Ladies' Home Journal, out to-day." He had heard this many times before;

but on this particular day, upon hearing the title of his own magazine

yelled almost in his ears, he gave an involuntary start.

Opposite to him sat a most companionable young fellow, who, noticing

Bok's start, leaned over and with a smile said: "I know, I know just how

you feel. That's the way I feel whenever I hear the name of that damned

magazine. Here, boy," he called to the retreating magazine-carrier,

"give me a copy of that Ladies' Home Disturber: I might as well buy it

here as in the station."

Then to Bok: "Honest, if I don't bring home that sheet on the day it is

out, the wife is in a funk. She runs her home by it literally. Same with

you?"

"The same," answered Bok. "As a matter of fact, in our family, we live

by it, on it, and from it."

Bok's neighbor, of course, couldn't get the real point of this, but he

thought he had it.

"Exactly," he replied. "So do we. That fellow Bok certainly has the

women buffaloed for good. Ever see him?"

"Oh, yes," answered Bok.

"Live in Philadelphia?"

"Yes."

"There's where the thing is published, all right. What does Bok look

like?"

"Oh," answered Bok carelessly, "just like, well, like all of us. In

fact, he looks something like me."

"Does he, now?" echoed the man. "Shouldn't think it would make you very

proud!"

And, the train pulling in at Baltimore, Bok's genial neighbor sent him a

hearty good-bye and ran out with the much-maligned magazine under his

arm!

He had an occasion or two now to find out what women thought of him!

He was leaving the publication building one evening after office hours

when just as he opened the front door, a woman approached. Bok explained

that the building was closed.

"Well, I am sorry," said the woman in a dejected tone, "for I don't

think I can manage to come again."

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Bok. "I am employed here."

"No-o," said the woman. "I came to see Mr. Curtis on a personal matter."

"I shall see him this evening," suggested Bok, "and can give him a

message for you if you like."

"Well, I don't know if you can. I came to complain to him about Mr.

Bok," announced the woman.

"Oh, well," answered Bok, with a slight start at the matter-of-fact

announcement, "that is serious; quite serious. If you will explain your

complaint, I will surely see that it gets to Mr. Curtis."

Bok's interest grew.

"Well, you see," said the woman, "it is this way. I live in a

three-family flat. Here is my name and card," and a card came out of a

bag. "I subscribe to The Ladies' Home Journal. It is delivered at my

house each month by Mr. Bok. Now I have told that man three times over

that when he delivers the magazine, he must ring the bell twice. But he

just persists in ringing once and then that cat who lives on the first

floor gets my magazine, reads it, and keeps it sometimes for three days

before I get it! Now, I want Mr. Curtis to tell Mr. Bok that he must do

as I ask and ring the bell twice. Can you give him that message for me?

There's no use talking to Mr. Bok; I've done that, as I say."

And Bok solemnly assured his subscriber that he would!

Bok's secretary told him one day that there was in the outer office the

most irate woman he had ever tried to handle; that he had tried for half

an hour to appease her, but it was of no use. She threatened to remain

until Bok admitted her, and see him she would, and tell him exactly what

she thought of him. The secretary looked as if he had been through a

struggle. "It's hopeless," he said. "Will you see her?"

"Certainly," said Bok. "Show her in."

The moment the woman came in, she began a perfect torrent of abuse. Bok

could not piece out, try as he might, what it was all about. But he did

gather from the explosion that the woman considered him a hypocrite who

wrote one thing and did another; that he was really a thief, stealing a

woman's money, and so forth. There was no chance of a word for fully

fifteen minutes and then, when she was almost breathless, Bok managed to

ask if his caller would kindly tell him just what he had done.

Another torrent of incoherent abuse came forth, but after a while it

became apparent that the woman's complaint was that she had sent a

dollar for a subscription to The Ladies' Home Journal; had never had a

copy of the magazine, had complained, and been told there was no record

of the money being received. And as she had sent her subscription to Bok

personally, he had purloined the dollar!

It was fully half an hour before Bok could explain to the irate woman

that he never remembered receiving a letter from her; that

subscriptions, even when personally addressed to him, did not come to

his desk, etc.; that if she would leave her name and address he would

have the matter investigated. Absolutely unconvinced that anything would

be done, and unaltered in her opinion about Bok, the woman finally left.

Two days later a card was handed in to the editor with a note asking him

to see for a moment the husband of his irate caller. When the man came

in, he looked sheepish and amused in turn, and finally said:

"I hardly know what to say, because I don't know what my wife said to

you. But if what she said to me is any index of her talk with you, I

want to apologize for her most profoundly. She isn't well, and we shall

both have to let it go at that. As for her subscription, you, of course,

never received it, for, with difficulty, I finally extracted the fact

from her that she pinned a dollar bill to a postal card and dropped it

in a street postal box. And she doesn't yet see that she has done

anything extraordinary, or that she had a faith in Uncle Sam that I call

sublime."

The Journal had been calling the attention of its readers to the

defacement of the landscape by billboard advertisers. One day on his way

to New York he found himself sitting in a sleeping-car section opposite

a woman and her daughter.

The mother was looking at the landscape when suddenly she commented:

"There are some of those ugly advertising signs that Mr. Bok says are

such a defacement to the landscape. I never noticed them before, but he

is right, and I am going to write and tell him so."

"Oh, mamma, don't," said the girl. "That man is pampered enough by

women. Don't make him worse. Ethel says he is now the vainest man in

America."

Bok's eyes must have twinkled, and just then the mother looked at him,

caught his eye; she gave a little gasp, and Bok saw that she had

telepathically discovered him!

He smiled, raised his hat, presented his card to the mother, and said:

"Excuse me, but I do want to defend myself from that last statement, if

I may. I couldn't help overhearing it."

The mother, a woman of the world, read the name on the card quickly and

smiled, but the daughter's face was a study as she leaned over and

glanced at the card. She turned scarlet and then white.

"Now, do tell me," asked Bok of the daughter, "who 'Ethel' is, so that I

may try at least to prove that I am not what she thinks."

The daughter was completely flustered. For the rest of the journey,

however, the talk was informal; the girl became more at ease, and Bok

ended by dining with the mother and daughter at their hotel that

evening.

But he never found out "Ethel's" other name!

There were curiously amusing sides to a man's editorship of a woman's

magazine!