A TREASURY OF

SUCCESS
UNLIMITED
edited by

OG MANDINO
A Publication of The
Napoleon Hill Foundation
Original Edition Copyright 1955-1966
by The Napoleon Hill Foundation
Revised Edition Copyright 2008 by The
Napoleon Hill Foundation
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9838111-4-5
Published by The Napoleon Hill
Foundation PO Box 1277
Wise, Virginia 24293
Website: www.naphill.org
Email: napoleonhill@uvawise.edu

PREFACE
Success is one of the most difficult
words in the English language to define.
To you it may mean fame and personal
power, to another it may be the
acquisition of a million dollars, to many
it is a happy home filled to capacity with
love. Whatever your own personal
definition of success may be, you will
discover much to ponder in the pages of
this book.
Since its first issue in 1954, Success
Unlimited magazine has been guided by
the philosophy, principles and personal
efforts of one man—Editor and
Publisher W. Clement Stone—and few
living Americans write or speak on this
subject of success with more authority or
experience. His own success story
transcends, by far, the heroes of the
Horatio Alger stories he read as a young
man. Beginning as a newsboy on the
streets of Chicago, Mr. Stone applied
many of the principles you will find in
this book to amass, and share with
others, a fortune that is in excess of $160
million!
With such a man at its helm, it is
inevitable that Success Unlimited
attracts to its pages nearly every giant in
the field of self-help and inspirational
writing. The best of their articles which
have appeared in the magazine have
been chosen for its first Treasury of
Success Unlimited. You are about to
meet people like Norman Vincent Peale,
Napoleon Hill, Harold Sherman, Preston
Bradley, Ben Sweetland and dozens of
others who will show you how to
become a whole person—not just
wealthy, but also healthy, happy and
wise.
Oliver Wendell Holmes once said
that many ideas grow better when they
are transplanted to another mind. You
are about to discover a treasure chest of
success ideas. Just one of
iv PREFACE
them could change your entire life!
May the ones you transplant from the
following pages to you grow strong and
healthy within your mind and heart until
you blossom into the person you’ve
always wanted to become.
OG MANDINO
Executive Director, Success Unlimited

CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION W. Clement Stone . . .
. . . . ix
 1 YOU UNLIMITED You Unlimited
Be Generous!
How to Profit from
Your Mistakes Now is Your Time!
Dr. Preston Bradley . . . . . . 1 W.
Clement Stone . . . . . . . 5
Douglas Lurton . . . . . . . . . 7 Dr. Louis
Binstock . . . . . . 12
2 FAITH UNLIMITED The Power of
Prayer “Of Whom Shall I
Be Afraid”
The Man Whose Work
Will Never End “God Has Been Good
to Me”
Handel’s Easter
Masterpiece
Break the Worry Habit A Living
Philosophy Bill Nelson . . . . . . . . . . . .
17
Alice Wellman . . . . . . . . . 20
W. Clement Stone . . . . . . 24
R. M. Good . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Henry N. Ferguson . . . . . 33
Dr. Norman Vincent Peale .37
W. Clement Stone . . . . . . 39
3 IDEAS UNLIMITED
Logic and the Unknown Read and Relax
for Profit W. Clement Stone . . . . . . 45
Claire Cox . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
vi CONTENTS
4 LOVE UNLIMITED
To Any Little Boy’s Father The Letter on
Yellow
Scratch Paper
Kelley’s Christmas Gift Anonymous . . .
. . . . . . . . 54
 W. Clement Stone . . . . . . 55
Og Mandino . . . . . . . . . . . 57
And Then There Was Light Earl Stowell
. . . . . . . . . . . 60
“And They Lived Happily
Ever After”
W. Clement Stone . . . . . . 64
5 COURAGE UNLIMITED Hogan
The Luckiest Man Alive Portrait of
Courage Og Mandino . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Raymond A. Tetzlaff . . . . 75 Theodore
Vrettos . . . . . . . 77
6 MIND UNLIMITED
The Surest Way in the
World to Attract Success —or
Failure
Your Source of Power The “Big Me”
Harold Sherman . . . . . . . 83 Napoleon
Hill . . . . . . . . . . 87 Marjorie Spiller
Neagle . . 92
7 HEALTH UNLIMITED How to
Live Longer How About Your
Insomnia?
Men, It’s Okay to Cry! Frank Rose . . . . .
. . . . . . . 95
Jack Meyer . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Ralph E. Prouty . . . . . . . 103
Danger! Alcoholism Ahead Lila Lennon
. . . . . . . . . . 107
Can You Afford Your
Temper? Duane Valentry . . . . . . . 110
8 OPPORTUNITY UNLIMITED A
Miracle of Positive
Thinking
Get Off the Treadmill! A Home for Ten
Cents Make the Impossible
 Your Goal!
William L. Roper . . . . . . 117
W. Clement Stone . . . . . 121
Ben Sweetland . . . . . . . . 123
Dr. Harold Blake Walker .127
CONTENTS vii
9 SALES UNLIMITED Reminiscing . . .
from Newsboy to President W. Clement
Stone . . . . . 133
10 SUCCESS UNLIMITED The
Ingredients of Success Eddie
Rickenbacker—
A Lesson in
Positive Faith
Art Linkletter—His
Happiness Is Complete at Christmas
David Sarnoff—He
Changed Your Life
Bob Cummings—”Live In a Dream
Fulfilled”
Steve McQueen—”Always Be Yourself”
Rudy Vallee—The
Feeling of Success
Florence Charwick— ”Winners Never
Quit; Quitters Never Win”
David Janssen—Fugitive From Failure
C. W. Post—”Just a
Little Bit Better”
Dr. Scholl—Footsteps to Success
Dr. James Turpin—
His Success Has
No Price Tag
Art Walton—Persistency, Larston D.
Farrar . . . . . . 139
William L. Roper . . . . . . 143
Adine Travis Lough . . . . 149
Paul Molloy . . . . . . . . . . . 153
Adine Travis Lough . . . . 158
William L. Roper . . . . . . 162
Ruby Vallee—As Told
to Larston D. Farrar . . 166
Harvey J. Berman . . . . . . 170
Duane Valentry . . . . . . . 175
Dave Hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
Bob Ferguson . . . . . . . . . 183
Eleanore Page Hamilton . 188
Prescription for Success Elizabeth Lello
. . . . . . . . 193 Lincoln’s Key to Success
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

INTRODUCTION
by W. CLEMENT STONE
Editor and Publisher, Success Unlimited
 Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon
Hill was first published in 1937.
Millions read it. I did too. It played an
important part in motivating me and
many thousands who were seeking
happiness, health, power and wealth to
achieve our objectives.
But there were hundreds of
thousands of readers who found Think
and Grow Rich so extremely interesting
to read that they were carried away by
the stories it contained and therefore did
not recognize, study and use the
principles that were applicable to
themselves. Yes, they were momentarily
inspired and undoubtedly benefited to
some degree. But after reading the book,
they failed to experience the success in
life they had the capacity to achieve.
In 1952 I met Napoleon Hill for the
first time. Because I had seen the power
of Think and Grow Rich change the lives
of thousands of persons for the better, I
encouraged him to come out of
retirement and spend five years to
complete his life’s work. He agreed on
one condition . . . that I become his
general manager. I accepted because I
realized that it is seldom that one man
can affect the lives of the masses of
future generations.
It is no longer true that if you build
the best mousetrap, a path will be beaten
to your door. Today the best ideas,
services and products must be sold. By
vocation I was a salesman and sales
manager. I felt that I had a contribution to
make in marketing what we subsequently
called the PMA (Positive Mental
Attitude) concepts.
x INTRODUCTION
Principles: Use Them or You Lose Them
During the ten years Napoleon Hill
and I were associated, our lectures,
books, movies, personal consultations
and the magazine Success Unlimited
developed gratifying, effective, and
often amazing results. Through them we
inspired and taught individuals how to
motivate themselves and others, at will,
to acquire the true riches of life as well
as monetary wealth and business
success. We soon observed, however,
that many individuals forgot the
principles. They did not learn and
employ them well enough to develop
them as habits of thought. They lost their
inspiration . . . they stopped trying.
We realized that motivation
(inspiration to action) is like a fire: the
flames will be extinguished unless the
fire is refueled. In 1954 vitamins were
the rage. We conceived the idea of the
monthly magazine Success Unlimited to
supply regular mental vitamins to
revitalize those who were seeking self-
help and wished inspiration to keep the
flames of their enthusiasm for self-
development alive.
So in 1954 Napoleon Hill and I
founded Success Unlimited. Because of
the many requests for an anthology, this
book, A Treasury of Success Unlimited,
was compiled.
Follow a Successful Guide
A Treasury of Success Unlimited can
guide you to happiness, good physical
and mental health, power and wealth.
Like the book Think and Grow Rich,
each biography, editorial or story is
interesting reading. Each contains a
message especially for you. Each is
designed to stimulate you to develop the
unlimited power of your mind.
The many successful authors who
themselves use the principles of success
revealed in their articles, and who,
collectively, have influenced the lives of
millions of persons for the better, give
you guidelines which you can use to
acquire happiness, good health and
wealth, and eliminate unnecessary
illness and misery.
We do not claim that the anthology in
itself will bring happiness, health,
power and wealth. But we do know that
if you are seeking these, you will
generate new ideas and be persistently
motivated toward your objectives as you
read each chapter. Your
INTRODUCTION xi
life will be changed, for you will be
motivated to read inspirational, self-help
books which are referred to—books
which have already changed countless
thousands of lives for the better. You
will like the concepts of certain authors
and will wish to read their works. In
brief, you will recognize new
opportunities that were not previously
apparent to you. But most of all, when
you have a good idea, you will be
impelled to follow through with . . .
action.
Are You Ready?
Improved good health and happiness
can be yours. Wealth . . . you can get it.
Power . . . you have it within you. But
you must decide whether you are willing
to pay the price to extract and use the
success principles necessary to acquire
these riches to life. The choice is yours
and . . . yours alone.
Perhaps you are ready to discover
and use gems of thought— simple
universal principles—contained in A
Treasury of Success Unlimited. Perhaps
you are not. If you are not ready, but
wish to increase your happiness,
physical and mental health, power and
wealth, you can prepare yourself now by
determining specifically what you really
want to achieve or acquire. For when
you know what your specific objectives
are concerning your distant, intermediate
and immediate goals, you will be more
apt to recognize that which will help you
achieve them.
If you have a sincere desire to
achieve anything worthwhile in life, an
affirmation answer to the following
questions will indicate that you are
ready to get for yourself the most this
book has to offer. Are you willing to pay
the price:
To try to be honest with yourself and
recognize your strengths and
weaknesses?
To try to engage in self-inspection with
regularity?
To try to discover how to develop
desirable habits and eliminate those you
are convinced are undesirable?
To try to follow the rules revealed to you
in this book which you yourself believe
will help you to reach your distant,
intermediate and immediate goals?
To try to recognize the principles that are
applicable to you?
If you are not willing to pay the price . . .
if you are not ready
xii INTRODUCTION
 . . . then enjoy the book. You’ll like
it. In all probability your reaction will
be such that you will then be ready to
reread it and extract the principles that
can help you bring your wishes into
reality. For each chapter will be thought-
provoking as each author endeavors to
motivate you to desirable action.
Results Are What Count
In 1952 I made a resolution. I
resolved that I would not write an
article, write a book or give a speech
unless I endeavored to motivate the
reader or member of my listening
audience to desirable action. I haven’t
failed to live up to that resolution. This
introductory to A Treasury of Success
Unlimited is no exception. For I am
attempting to motivate you to seek and
find greater happiness, good mental and
physical health, power and wealth, by
suggesting you endeavor to recognize,
relate, assimilate and use the principles
contained in each chapter of this book.
I evaluate my work by the standard:
Results are what count. I feel warranted
in speaking with authority. The type of
material used in this anthology has been
instrumental in building Combined
Insurance Company of America, of
which I am president, into the largest
company of its kind in the world. Every
sales representative, office employee
and shareholder in the Combined Group
of Companies (which includes the
Combined Insurance Company of
America, Combined American Insurance
Company, Hearthstone Insurance
Company of Massachusetts and First
National Casualty Company) has
received such information for many
years. I have firsthand knowledge of its
effectiveness.
Also, as president of the Chicago
Boys Club, I have seen the lives of
teenage boys who have been exposed to
such inspirational literature changed for
the better.
Recidivism has been reduced in
prisons where inspirational self-help
books and Success Unlimited magazine
have been furnished to those who were
incarcerated, and where they were
instructed in the principles contained in
this literature.
Letters from many subscribers in the
United States and other parts of the
world, whom I have not met, indicate the
help and inspiration they have received
from the magazine.
Therefore, from firsthand experience and
testimonials I
INTRODUCTION xiii
know that Success Unlimited has
been a powerful influence in bringing
happiness, health, power and wealth to
those who had a sincere desire to
achieve their specific objectives.
The selected articles from Success
Unlimited issues of the past, contained in
A Treasury of Success Unlimited, can do
for you what the magazine has done for
others.
1 YOU
UNLIMITED
Of all knowledge the wise
and good seek most to know
themselves. —Shakespeare
Do you believe you have unlimited
possibilities for happiness and success?
You will, after you read. . .

YOU UNLIMITED
by DR. PRESTON BRADLEY
 Many years ago I was walking
across the old Rush Street Bridge in
Chicago with my coat-collar up and a
cap pulled down over my eyes, and I
bumped into a man who had on a heavy
raincoat and was walking in the opposite
direction, with his head down and his
hat pulled over his eyes. I said, “I’m
sorry, excuse me.” He said, “That’s quite
all right: I want to know if you like the
rain, too.” I looked into his face and
knew immediately, for it was not many
evenings before that I had sat in a theater
and had seen him in an interpretation of
one of the great classic plays of our
literature—the play of Peer Gynt—for
the man to whom I was speaking, who
became my friend until his death, was
that fine, distinguished gentleman,
scholar and great actor, Richard
Mansfield, who had to struggle and fight
to read that enviable position which he
occupied in the American Theater as one
of the great interpreters of the classics.
Mr. Mansfield never remembered
when he did not want to become a great
actor. As a child, like a great many
children, he loved to mimic people. His
mother opposed him in his ambition very
bitterly. She wanted him to go into
business and follow the mercantile
profession. This was revolting to
Mansfield, and he played his first part
when he was a lad of seventeen. His
mother thought she would humiliate and
embarrass him sufficiently so that he
never would think of the theater again.
At the opening performance of the play,
in which he had a very minor part, she
and two of her friends engaged seats not
far from the front of the stage. When this
boy, with his dreams of greatness in the
theater—and at its best it is a noble
profession, with great social and cultural
values—came on in the play, he was
publicly ridiculed by his mother. She
taunted him! She and her friends
laughed, whispered and did everything
in the world they could to defeat him. He
went through his part, but he said he
went to his dressing room and wept
bitterly. It seemed that the world had
dropped away from him that he should
be treated like that, but he said to
himself: “I will take my life and develop
every bit of it to the perfection of my art.
No one can stop me. I believe that I have
unlimited possibilities and I will do my
best to develop them.” Nothing stopped
him. Early in life he realized that he was
not limited by any influence that could
be constructed about him to defeat the
highest purposes of his life.
Now, are we all constituted in such a
way that our success in life consists of
decreasing our limitations? Is it possible
for us to have such a clear conception of
what those limitations are that we can
make it our supreme business to
decrease them? Most of us are very poor
critics of ourselves. We can easily
criticize others and discover what is
wrong with them, and we can easily
build up an argument for our own side of
the situation; but it is a far more difficult
thing to be a self-critic—to take the
situation that comes into our life and sit
down with it frankly and say: “What did
I do, or what have I said that has
contributed to this situation?”
There is not a person reading this
article who is living up to his or her own
possibilities. If you feel in pretty much
of a chaos, frustrated, lots of trouble and
worry, just turn the searchlight on
yourself and you will discover an
available source of power. When you
open up the channels and the avenues for
that power, it will flood your soul and
you will find yourself developing
strength and poise, a solidarity, a feeling
of security, that nothing on earth can
shake!
Is there jealousy in your heart? Is
there envy? Opposition? Don’t expect a
miracle if you retain an obstacle. There
is some disciplining you must do. You
have got to clear out the old festering
sores of your heart. Perhaps you have
lied about someone; perhaps you have
been unkind; perhaps you have slandered
and gossiped. Perhaps you have been
“little” when you should have been
“big.”
How can we transmit our ideals into
action so that these ideals can have sway
in our lives? Well, we have to begin in
our own hearts. When we clear away all
that clutters up the channels, the heart
and mind are cleansed, the head
becomes rarified and the old jealousies,
animosities and hatreds are uprooted,
and then, though trouble may come in
and flood and encompass our lives, there
still is a power that reveals our own
possibilities. The mere fact that none of
us is living up to his best does not
predicate that we never can.
Set no barriers for yourself. Admit
no barricades or obstacles. Anything in
the way? Look at it, examine it, analyze
your own relationship to the self-
construction of it, clean up your own life
and there will be an influx of that power
to which there is no limit—unlimited
you! You are unlimited! There is no limit
for you!
I knew a woman not many years ago
who was stricken with polio—infantile
paralysis—and as happens so frequently
with adults, the resultant paralysis was
tragic. One of those wellmeaning ladies,
you know the type, came into her sick-
room where she was experiencing the
tragedy of it, and said to her: “Oh, my
dear, I suppose an illness like this does
color one’s life, doesn’t it?” And this
great soul replied, “Yes, it does color
one’s life, but I choose the color!”
The trouble is, in this complicated
period in which we are all living, the
very atmosphere is charged with
frustration—and assault upon unity and
harmony; discord is the theme. We are in
chaos. And what is true of the world
society is true of our little individual
world, the one inside us that is so
important to us. The world basically and
fundamentally is constituted on the basis
of harmony. Everything works in co-
operation with something else. In the
entire world of the physical universe
every law is dovetailed into every other.
The whole cosmic reality is integrated
by one harmonic whole, and whenever
discord anywhere comes into the
picture, trouble arises. That is not only
true of the cosmos of which we are a
part, but it is also true of your life and
mine in the little orbit in which we life.
How can we develop a technique for
the manifestation of harmony, in spite of
the storms around us? How can we keep
our own integration in such operations
so that disease and discord and
confusion can never touch a single iota
of our own constituency? Is that
possible? Not entirely possible, though
it was for some who have lived: Saint
Francis of Assisi, the immortal and
everlasting Gandhi, and I think for Dr.
Albert Schweitzer down in the wilds
and jungles of Africa, and for the classic
example of all the history of humanity—
the Master of Men. All the evil that can
be designed against you can be
dissipated and eradicated by the
presence of that divine harmony. There
is strength and beauty in it, nothing
fragile or weak. It is strong; it is
unlimited; for beauty is power; truth has
vitality; unity has power. They are the
great, positive, creative, unlimited
forces of life. I like in this connection to
think of some lines from a poem of Ella
Wheeler Wilcox:
You will be what you will be;
Let failure find its false content
In that poor word “environment”; But
spirit scorns it and is free.
Be not impatient in delay,
But wait as one who understands;
When spirit rises and commands The
gods are ready to obey.
The river seeking for the sea
Confronts the dam and precipice,
Yet knows it cannot fail or miss; You
will be what you will be! Even without
worldly wealth it’s possible for you to .
..

BE GENEROUS!
by W. CLEMENT STONE
Be generous! Give to those whom
you love; give to those who love you;
give to the fortunate; give to the
unfortunate; yes—give especially to
those to whom you don’t want to give.
Your most precious, valued
possessions and your greatest powers
are invisible and intangible. No one can
take them. You, and you alone, can give
them. You will receive abundance for
your giving. The more you give—the
more you will have!
 Give a smile to everyone you meet
(smile with your eyes)— and you’ll
smile and receive smiles. . .
Give a kind word (with a kindly thought
behind the word)— you will be kind and
receive kind words. . .
Give appreciation (warmth from the
heart)—you will appreciate and be
appreciated. . .
Give honor, credit and applause (the
victor’s wreath)—you will be honorable
and receive credit and applause. . .
Give time for a worthy cause (with
eagerness)—you will be worthy and
richly rewarded. . .
Give hope (the magic ingredient for
success)—you will have hope and be
made hopeful. . .
Give happiness (a most treasured state
of mind)—you will be happy and be
made happy. . .
Give encouragement (the incentive to
action)—you will have courage and be
encouraged. . .
Give cheer (the verbal sunshine)—
you’ll be cheerful and cheered. . .
Give a pleasant response (the neutralizer
of irritants)—you will be pleasant and
receive pleasant responses. . .
Give good thoughts (nature’s character
builder)—you will be good and the
world will have good thoughts for you. .
.
Give prayers (the instrument of
miracles) for the godless and the godly
—you will be reverent and receive
blessings, more than you deserve!
Be generous! Give!
There are two things you can do when
you make a mistake. You can feel sorry
for yourself
and give up or you can learn. . .

HOW TO PROFIT FROM

YOUR MISTAKES
by DOUGLAS LURTON
So you have made a mistake or many
mistakes! So have we all. But all do not
realize that there are intelligent ways as
well as stupid ways of confronting
errors. The smart approach is to
recognize that it’s not so much the
mistakes you have made as what you do
about those mistakes that really counts—
on your job, in a career, in dealing with
others at home and elsewhere. You can
duck and dodge and alibi and mope and
give up trying to eliminate and correct
mistakes, or you can use your head and
profit from your own errors and those of
others.
1. You profit by facing mistakes
squarely. Don’t alibi.
Man’s ego is such that he has an
instinctive urge to alibi failure and
rationalize what he does, particularly
when he makes mistakes. That way he
loses. He profits, however, if he
intelligently faces up to mistakes,
accepts responsibility, and doesn’t hide
in a fog of his alibis. He profits when he
refuses to become a fugitive from the
reality of his errors.
You probably recognize the other
fellow’s alibis more clearly than your
own. You know the folks who in a boom
blame the inflation, in a depression
blame the season or the weather or the
dog or the cat.
Perhaps he who alibis and runs way
from his problems may live to alibi
another day, but he’s not likely to be a
winner. You can rationalize yourself into
a rut of mediocrity or even into an
asylum. You can alibi yourself out of a
job or out of a promotion. There is a
study of why thousands were fired from
scores of corporations. More were
discharged for sheer carelessness, more
for simple failure to cooperate, more for
plain unadulterated laziness, than for
lack of specific skill on the job. And yet
it is safe to say that every one of these
thousands of failures had a list of perfect
alibis and refused to face up to his or her
mistakes.
2. You profit if you don’t let mistakes get
you down.
The strong men and women bounce
back after making mistakes. They have
the courage to try to avoid repetition of
errors and to improve. The weaklings
make mistakes and don’t bounce back.
They develop fear of trying again and
having to make good. They wallow in
regrets for past errors. Self-pity is a
spoiler. Remorse is a saboteur that can
hold you back on any job and in any
walk of life.
Babe Ruth whammed out home runs,
but also fanned 1330 times and didn’t
sulk about it. Thomas Edison made
countless mistakes in his laboratories.
Abraham Lincoln failed in many
ventures. The notable inventor Charles
F. Kettering would be the last to claim
he never made a mistake. But all of these
countless others in more obscure places
had one thing in common—they didn’t
let their mistakes get them down. They
recognized that courage has magic in it,
and they bounced back after failure and
tried again—and won.
3. You profit if you learn how to take
criticism.
The first, almost instinctive reaction
to criticism is resentment. Your feelings
are hurt! Your ego seems under attack,
and an assault on your ego is like a small
attack on your life. Many of us resent
even our own self-critical thoughts and
dismiss them quickly. The multitude
resents criticism coming from others and
sets up face-saving defenses. But the
smart, fully mature man or woman
determines to profit from criticism and
learns how to take it intelligently.
Adverse criticism may be offered
from downright meanness or
carelessness; or it may come from a
sincere desire to help. Anyone interested
in self-advancement should listen to
criticism either mean or honestly offered
with this in mind: The more true the
criticism may be, the more it may hurt.
Unjust criticism can be rather easily
brushed to one side, but if it really
stings, the intelligent approach is to seek
out the elements of truth that may be
involved and take steps to avoid any
possible repetition of the criticism.
There is nothing fundamentally new
here. It has all been said before and in
fewer words by an ancient and wise king
named Solomon: “Reprove not thy
scorner, lest he hate thee; rebuke a wise
man and he will love thee.”
4. You profit most by learning from your
own mistakes and those of others.
Learning from mistakes is a neat
trick that you can acquire if you want to.
It is a neat trick because actually we
don’t necessarily learn much by so-
called experience. That may seem to be
a challenging statement—and it is. But it
is a statement that can be proved easily.
A doctor with fifty years of
experience is not necessarily a better
doctor than one with ten years of
experience. A halfcentury as a craftsman
does not necessarily mean that an
individual is better than one with a few
years of experience. It all depends on
how alert the individual is, how
selective he is in piling up his
experience.
For instance, “experienced”
bricklayers laid bricks for thousands of
years in very much the same old way.
From generation to generation master
bricklayers repeated the methods they
had been taught as apprentices. Their
instruction included experience in
repeating the mistakes as well as the
skills of their craft. They learned to lay
brick through experience, but they didn’t
learn from mistakes how to eliminate
much lost motion, much of doing it the
hard way. It was not until Dr. Frank
Gilbreth studied the old “experienced”
methods and applied a bit of scientific
analysis that experienced bricklayers
were taught how to lay many more
bricks in much less time and with much
less effort.
Unless we learn how to ferret our
mistakes and learn from them, all too
many of us may practice our mistakes as
assiduously as we practice our
successes.
John D. Rockefeller was a master at
analyzing his mistakes as well as his
successes. Each night Rockefeller set
aside ten minutes during which he
reviewed and analyzed what he had
done during the day. He was critical of
all of his actions and judgments and
studied them carefully to sort out the
mistakes when they occurred, to analyze
them, to learn from them.
In his way Rockefeller was using the
“scientific” approach to benefit from his
mistakes. It is an approach that is used
either consciously or unconsciously by
all desiring to profit from mistakes and
succeed in their occupational and home
life and their relations with other
people. Here are the steps:
Step one—Determine carefully just
what it is you are trying to accomplish
and why. What is the job of the moment?
What is its purpose?
Step two—What are the pertinent
facts involved? Can you get additional
facts bearing on your problem from
friends, from reading, from associates
and leaders or others in a position to
know?
Step three—After considering all of
the facts available you should be able to
determine various possible courses of
action and consider each possible
course carefully. Study both its
advantages and its disadvantages.
Step four—Narrow down the
possible courses of action to the one that
comes closest to accomplishing your
purpose.
Step five—If you have carefully
followed the first four steps and not
done a lot of conclusion-jumping, you
may be sure that your analysis has given
you the one best course of action for you,
and the important step is to do something
about it, beginning now.
5. You learn by taking courage from the
fact that others, even the famous, make
mistakes also.
There is a certain measure of
comfort for all of us in knowing that
there is no man or woman who hasn’t
made mistakes. No doubt it was this fact
that prompted the humorist Mark Twain
to point out that man is the only animal
who blushes—or needs to!
There is rarely a biography or
autobiography that doesn’t reveal painful
and sometimes costly mistakes. Many
mistakes are hidden, but may are
broadcast to the world. Not long ago an
entire book was filled with the boners
and bloopers of scores of the most noted
radio and television stars—and when
you stumble on the air millions know it!
There can and have been mistakes
before the throne and in the seclusion of
laboratory or home or factory. Sir Walter
Scott, backing away from King George
IV of England, sat down hard and
smashed a goblet as well as his
composure; but his blushes didn’t hold
him down. Mistakes in full or in part
were responsible for certain
wallboards, vulcanized rubber, Xrays,
aniline colors, photography, dynamite,
fiber glass, and many other inventions by
people who learned from mistakes.
It is no crime to make mistakes as
long as you are trying. It is, however,
almost a crime against yourself, at least,
to just be around and do nothing. And the
gravest mistake of all is to continue
practicing mistakes without learning to
minimize or eliminate those errors.
It’s not the mistakes you make, but what
you do about those mistakes that really
counts.
Life will double in enjoyment for you
when you finally realize that. . .

NOW IS YOUR TIME!

By DR. LOUIS BINSTOCK
No man can be said to be truly happy
unless he has attained peace of mind—
an inner security—a calm contentment. A
man may experience many joys but he is
not necessarily happy. He may know
many pleasures but he is not necessarily
happy. One of the best definitions of
happiness that has crossed my reading
road is one fashioned by William Henry
Channing, Chaplain of the House of
Representatives in the middle of the last
century: “To live content with small
means, to seek elegance rather than
luxury and refinement rather than
fashion; to be worthy not respectable,
and wealthy not rich; to study hard, think
quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen
to the stars and birds, to babes and sages
with open heart; to bear all cheerfully,
do all bravely, await occasions, hurry
never; in a word, to let the spiritual
unbidden and unconscious grow up
through the common.”
The ancient rabbis have put it in this
wise: “Who is rich? Only the man who
rejoices in his portion, that is, the
contented man.” Perhaps no better
solution has been found than the one
discovered by Granpa Tubbs who had
been stubborn and crabbed for years. No
one in the village could please him.
Then, overnight, he changed. Only
sweetness and light radiated from his
personality. The villagers were
astounded. “Granpa,” they cried, “what
is it that caused you to change so
suddenly?” “Well, sir,” the old man
replied, “I’ve been striving all my life
for a contented mind. It’s done no good.
So I’ve just decided to be contented
without it.”
Some years ago I saw Joe E. Brown
in the play Harvey. He was the shining
star of the production. Afterwards, I had
the pleasure of meeting him. I asked him
what he liked most about the play. He
replied: “The line in which Harvey’s
drink-happy friend says, ‘I always have
a wonderful time just where I am,
whoever I am with.’” I have thought
about that line a great deal and the more
I have thought about it, the more I have
become convinced that Joe E. Brown
was right. The basic lesson we must
learn is that you cannot conquer reality
by running away from it. You must meet
and deal with it wherever it is,
whenever it is, however it is, with
whomever it is. There is the best place
and really the only place where you can
find lasting happiness.
Some time ago, while reading the
biography of the Dutch painter Vincent
Van Gogh, who struggled in poverty and
pain all his days and died at too young
an age, it would seem, to have reaped a
sufficient reward for all his sacrifice
and suffering, I ran across a significant
passage in a letter to his brother Theo. It
reads: “It would not make me so
melancholy, Brother, if you had not
added something that worries me. You
say ‘let’s hope for better times.’ You see,
that is one of those things we must be
careful of. To hope for better times must
not be a feeling but an action in the
present. For the very reason that I felt
strongly the hope for better times, I
threw myself with all my strength into
the work of the present without thinking
of the future.” Van Gogh was not
satisfied just to hope for better times. He
toiled and sweated in order to make
better times. He lived a short time but he
left a glorious heritage to mankind.
Too many of us waste our years
waiting for better times in the future or
wondering about better times in the past,
instead of working for better times in the
present. If only we had lived in better
times or had been born in better times! If
only we lived with better people or
belonged to a less underprivileged and
despised group! If only we lived in a
better home or a better town! If only we
had a better business or a better job! If
—if—if! Tomorrow—tomorrow—
tomorrow! But today is always here;
yesterday is gone, and tomorrow may
never come. No, now is the time—here
is the place. This is the person. This is
your home. This is your job. This is your
wife—your husband—your child—your
mother—your friend. This is your
people. This is your country. This is
your generation. You can have a
wonderful time just where you are, just
when you are, just how you are, just with
whomever you are.
2 FAITH
UNLIMITED
All the scholastic
scaffolding falls, as a ruined
edifice, before one single
word—faith. —Napoleon
Death was minutes away when he
discovered. . .

THE POWER OF PRAYER

by BILL NELSON
 The tall handsome Irish tenor gasped
for air. He was only vaguely aware of
his bed in a Milwaukee hospital and the
nurse whose anxious face wavered in
and out of his vision. As polio gripped
his weakened lungs more tightly with
every labored breath, Marvin Moran
thought desperately of his young wife
and two small children, and of the
unpaid mortgage on his home. This was
no time for him to die!
Only a few days before, he had been
on a singing tour in the Midwest—
fatigued, but happy that his career was
progressing so well. In the car on his
way home, he developed a fever. It was
nothing to worry about, he thought. But
in a few more hours, he was to learn
crushing news: He had polio.
“My legs had become immobile,” he
recalls. “Spinal polio had done its part.
Then bulbar polio started knocking out
the top part of my body. I could feel the
paralysis taking over the nerves in my
body as it moved closer to my head.”
Each time that Marvin Morgan
struggled for one more painful breath,
his stomach cavity went into spasm. He
had reached the crisis. The hush in the
room was broken only by the in-sucking
sound that indicated the approaching end
of the singer’s life.
“I knew I was dying,” Moran said
later. “I had been struggling to breathe
for a day and a half. I was so exhausted,
I couldn’t fight any more.”
 Then came the most unbelievable
moment of his life. Barely conscious,
Moran murmured a simple prayer:
“God forgive me for my sins.
I put my soul in your hands.”
Things began to happen—
immediately. “As soon as I let God take
over,” Moran said, “I felt surrounded
and cradled by warmth. I could sense
God’s presence. Suddenly, I had a
vision. I saw my vocal teacher of many
years before. He was teaching me how
to breathe properly—using my
diaphragm. He was showing me how to
take short ‘catch’ breaths the way a
batter does just before he hits the ball.
“I stopped gasping so deeply for air
and used the ‘catch’ breath. To my
amazement, it began to work. What a
marvelous feeling! I began to breathe
fairly well. The spasms were relieved. I
had learned the secret of relaxed power,
and it was keeping me alive.”
The next two weeks were a living
hell. It took fourteen days for the crisis
to pass. But the doctors were amazed
that the polio could go all the way to the
bulb of his brain, then halt so suddenly
but a breath away from death. It was
certain now that the Milwaukee vocalist
would live.
A grateful Moran told friends: “My
recovery from polio shows the
tremendous power of prayer. It is true
that faith can move mountains.”
Now a staggering challenge awaited
him. He set out on the laborious,
frustratingly slow process of regaining
the use of his semiparalyzed body. The
doctors agreed that he could never walk
or sing again.
“But I was convinced that I would,”
Moran said. Long, tedious hours of
speech and physical therapy followed.
He had to completely rebuild his voice
and his body. In time, he was braced so
that he could sit up in bed. Then he
progressed to a wheelchair—and
mobility.
“I remember how I’d get into my
wheelchair and go behind stage at the
Veterans’ Rehabilitation Hospital and
practice my singing. My voice, nasal
from the effects of polio, was awful. But
I kept at it.”
Only one year after Marvin Moran’s
battle with death, he limped out to home
plate at the Milwaukee County Stadium
and sang, “When Irish Eyes are
Smiling.” The capacity crowd
responded with a thunderous ovation.
Then he sang the National Anthem—and
40,000 voices joined him. Although one
arm hung motionless at his side, no one
noticed; and on that August night in
1954, a new career began for Marvin
Moran.
During the next ten years, Moran’s
melodic voice became a beloved part of
the Braves’ home games. He sang at the
1955 All-Star game and at both the 1957
and 1958 World Series. More than 14
million spectators heard him perform
before he left the club in 1964.
“I loved every moment of it,” he
says. “Those days will always be happy
memories for me.”
Today Marvin Moran is a financial
planner for the Northwestern Mutual
Life Insurance Company. He fills
numerous singing engagements,
frequently conducting hymn sings
throughout Wisconsin on Sunday
evenings.
About his experience at the brink of
death, Moran says, “God had a special
plan for me. I am thankful that He has
given me this opportunity to tell people
of the wondrous power of prayer.”
Her faith withstood even the most
terrifying name in the underworld. . .

“OF WHOM SHALL I BE

AFRAID?”
by ALICE WELLMAN
It was January of 1931 and my
engagement as soloist for Maestro
Cherniavsky’s Symphony Orchestra at
the Saenger Theatre, a motion picture
palace of New Orleans, would end in
two weeks. I loved to sing and for the
four-shows-a-day stretch I was paid
$125 a week. This was a fortune! This
was especially so for a missionary’s
child reared in the jungles of West
Africa, who had earned her musical
education and who hadn’t owned more
than one pair of stockings at a time, until
she began to sing for a living six months
ago.
But now I was obsessed by worry.
Where would my next job come from?
The depression was in full sway. In New
York City, musical shows were few and
seasoned performers were plentiful.
“Alice,” yelled the stage manager as
I came off stage. “A man’s waiting to see
you.”
The man tipped his black hat and handed
me a card which read: “Curly Stone,
Booking Cafés and Picture Houses, 54
West Randolph Street, Chicago.”
“They need a prima donna in a Chicago
club called the Frolics,” he said. “They
want this girl singer to be a new face in
Chicago. I can get you $150 a week.”
I was awed by the salary. Of Chicago I
knew nothing. I signed the contract and
asked, “Who owns The Frolics?”
“Uncle Jakey’s the manager.” Curly
Stone lit a big cigar. “Everybody calls
him Uncle Jakey.”
“Does he own it, too?”
“I’m personal representative for the
club. We’ll have a bangup show this
turn.”
“But whom do I work for?” I persisted.
“What do you care? You’ll get good
money.”
“I have to know before I pay my fare to
Chicago. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be
stranded.”
“Well,” he grunted, “Uncle Jakey
handles the club for Al Brown. You
make good with this outfit and you’ll be
set for life.”
On February 15, I opened at The Frolics
on Chicago’s South Side. It was an
elaborate café and I was much
impressed, particularly since I’d never
even been in a nightclub before.
Three weeks later, I stood in the wings,
watching the lineup of girls in exit from
their opening number. Their faces shone
with vivacity and their gorgeous legs
pranced high and fast.
They ran to their dressing room, calling
excitedly, “Al Brown’s here! Al
Brown’s out front!”
I heard my entrance music. I was on. My
finish song was the sobby torch hit,
“Give Me Something to Remember You
By.” It brought an unexpected ovation.
Bowing to the applause, I could see
Uncle Jakey at the back of the club,
looking at the tables on my left. I looked
too.
Around a long table sat a group of
perhaps thirty men, pounding their hands
together. Blobs of faces, bodies relaxed
yet taut. Like the sleepy jungle animals, I
thought, ready for a sudden spring.
Three encores later, Uncle Jakey hailed
me back stage. “Al Brown likes your
work, kiddo,” he said deferentially. “He
wants you to come to his table.”
“Good,” I said. “Maybe he’ll order me
one of those good steak sandwiches.”
We approached the long table. “Which
one is Al Brown?” I asked.
Uncle Jakey looked at me questioningly,
then pointed out the stocky man at the
head of the table. The man’s dark hair
receded from a high forehead. A great
scar cut down the side of his face.
Terror swept over me, buzzed in my
ears, blurred my eyes. I had read the
papers, seen this man’s picture many
times. “Al Brown” was his alias.
He rose. The others rose as if on signal.
“Where’d such a little girl as you get that
big sweet voice?” he rasped, smiling at
me.
I couldn’t speak but I was praying,
silently pleading for help. Then the
voice of my mother spoke as clearly as
if she stood beside me. “The Lord is the
strength of my life; of whom shall I be
afraid?”
Al Brown turned to the impassive faces
around him. “Meet my friends, babe.
This is Nick. Frank. Joe . . .Max. . .”
And so on down the line. “You’ll join us
after the show. We’ll go to the hotel for
drinks and eats.” It was a command.
I wondered at the exact formation in
which we walked the short blocks to the
hotel. Al Brown and I moved within a
solid phalanx of his men. Someone
kicked a pebble and the man beside me
jerked his hand out from beneath his
coat. He had a revolver in it. Well, I was
used to firearms. Papa always carried
them in Angola because of the snakes
and dangerous beasts.
Al Brown’s rooms covered an entire
floor of the hotel. Luxurious furnishings,
refectory tables laden with delectable
food, two bars from which liquors
flowed into big heavy glasses. A burly
man, his gun beside him, fed records into
a Victrola.
“Ever had any Napoleon brandy?” Al
Brown said to me.
“No,” I answered. I’d never heard of it.
He led me into a small room to an
elaborately carved table on which sat a
dark bottle and two bellied glasses.
Proudly, he showed me the label.
“But I don’t drink,” I said.
He stared unbelievingly at me. “Tell me
about yourself, baby,” he ordered.
“Where were you raised?”
“In Chiyaka on Mount Elende in
Angola.”
“How’d you come to be there?”
“Mama and Papa took me there when I
was six weeks old. They were
missionaries. Papa was a doctor and
Mama had a school for the Africans.”
“Well, you got a new line, anyway,” he
said skeptically. “Who’d your father
doctor?”
“Mostly lepers. But he researched a lot
—on serums for snakebites. West Africa
has two groups of poisonous snakes, the
adders and the cobras. Papa worked on
a polyvalent serum that would protect
against both types of snakebite.”
“Whew! Nobody could make that up.”
He leaned toward me. “I’d have been
scared to death. Weren’t you?”
“No. But Mama was frightened a lot.
She was always protecting us children
from mosquitoes and tse-tse flies and
scorpions and leopards. We lived in the
leopard country. But she didn’t let us be
afraid.”
“What’d she do?” He was curious.
“She always knelt down and prayed.”
“So? Your mother still alive?”
“Yes. Mama lives in Wichita, Kansas.
We lost Papa but I help my brothers take
care of Mama now. She. . .”
Al Brown interrupted me with a kingly
gesture. He pinched my cheek with his
massive fingers. “Okay, baby,” he said,
turning to the door.
“Nick!” he roared. Nick, gun in hand,
appeared instantly.
“Put this kid in Joe’s taxi and tell him to
drive her home. Safe.”
The next evening, when I reached the
club, Uncle Jakey handed me a small
box from a well-known florist.
“For you, Alice,” he said respectfully.
The box held a corsage of three white
orchids. I laughed delightedly for they
were the first ones I’d ever received in a
box. In the African rain forest, they grew
on trees. Their centers were pushed
open. Each held a folded hundred-dollar
bill.
“Al Brown told me to deliver them to
you personal,” he said. “A message goes
with them. The orchids are for you but
the money’s for your mother.”
That night I wrote to my brother Paul.
Paul was on the Kansas City Star and I
thought he’d find the facts of mother’s
gifts amusing.
Two days later, Paul rapped on my hotel
room door. “You’re leaving Chicago,”
he said.
“But Paul, my contract—my salary?”
“Hurry and pack, honey,” he said firmly.
He put me on a plane that evening. Back
in New York, I landed a job in an
operetta, not a nightclub.
Since I sang in The Frolics twenty-eight
years ago, I have seen Al Brown’s name
blazoned in headlines many times. I
know there was one moment in his life,
though he may never have recognized it,
when he felt the power of prayer. And
that was the moment when I learned the
strength that came from the Lord,
whether you faced the dangers of
African jungles or worked for Al
Capone in Chicago.
Henry J. Kaiser’s wealth is great but he
learned the true values of life from his
mother. . .

THE MAN WHOSE WORK

WILL NEVER END
by W. CLEMENT STONE
I went to Hawaii for several
reasons, one of which was to find true
stories. I found one that had a terrific
impact upon my future development—
one that could also change the entire
course of your life if you are ready.
It concerns the “common horse sense
philosophy” of a man close to the top of
the list of America’s ten living men
whose lives have been most beneficial
to their country during peace and war,
and who have generated great
constructive forces to inspire men and
women of future generations, the man
whose work will never end—Henry J.
Kaiser.
You know him by name—your future
success would be assured if you could
relate and assimilate into your own life
his fundamentally effective philosophy.
He continually proves that it works for
anyone who uses it. He would like to
share it with you. Regardless of your
age, you can employ his formulas for
success.
Today the wealth of the companies
identified with his name have total
assets of approximately one billion
dollars—30 active corporations
consisting of 125 plants in 20 countries
which turn out over 300 products.
THE HAWAIIAN VILLAGE
I found my inspiring story there. The
Hawaiian Village is the tourist’s,
artist’s, philosopher’s and author’s
dream come true of everything that
Hawaii is and ought to be; Hawaiian
music, singers, beautiful dancers; a
white sand beach, six swimming pools
and a lagoon, a yacht harbor with its
catamarans and skiing facilities: palm-
thatched guest houses, clusters of
Waikiki Beach lanais, a 14-story hotel
(the construction of additional hotels
will ultimately accommodate four
thousand guests at one time) in a
Polynesian setting of acres of fragrant
tropical gardens and palm trees where
birds sing happily—all under a bright
tanning sun during the day. Yet the dry
air is cool in the shade; there is a
covering of myriads of bright stars at
night; and there is a monument to the
needy in the form of a proposed
ultramodern hospital. There are
facilities for conventions in the unique
aluminum dome auditorium with a
seating capacity of eighteen hundred
persons.
More importantly, at the Hawaiian
Village you feel that the brotherhood of
man is a reality and not a theory.
Europeans, Americans, Polynesians and
Orientals meet on a plane of equality.
They like and respect each other. There
is magic in the air. Catholic and
Protestant church services are held in the
same church building, which is designed
in the style of a native chief’s longhouse.
A Hawaiian said to me, “Henry J.
Kaiser inspires us. He has done more for
Hawaii than anyone in our lifetime. He
gives the young generation hope and
courage. There was a time when no one
dared compete with the ‘Big 5’ which
had controlled these islands for
generations. Henry J. Kaiser had the
courage—he succeeded.”
APPLIED IMAGINATION
In Henry J. Kaiser’s workshop Robert
C. Elliott, his executive assistant, said,
“He first pictures in his mind what he
wants; he tells one of our artists; the
artist draws the picture; our architects
lay out the plans; a date is set for
construction; the work is completed. See
for yourself. Here are the original
pictures of the buildings in the Hawaiian
Village; here are the photographs of the
finished construction.” Yes, Henry J.
Kaiser uses applied imagination.
A SELF-EDUCATED MAN
Henry John Kaiser was born May 9,
1882 in Sprout Brook, New York, one of
four children of Francis John Kaiser, a
mechanic in a shoe factory, and Mary
(Yopps) Kaiser, a practical nurse, both
of whom were German immigrants.
At the age of thirteen he discontinued
school and trudged the sidewalks of
New York, week after week, looking for
work. He has always been inquisitive—
he wanted to learn. Like Thomas A.
Edison, Andrew Carnegie and other
self-made men he continued to learn
after leaving school. He learned from
experience—as a young salesman and a
sales manager (perhaps the greatest
vocation for any person interested in
learning about people and interested in
self-improvement) and he learned from
history, literature, poetry and religious
sermons. He eagerly listens to the
messages that are applicable to him!
For example, at the age of seventeen
he was impressed by a sermon, the
essence of which was “Cherish the rich
memories of the smiles and sunshine you
have given to others and the friendly
smiles and sunshine that others have
given to you.” At the age of nineteen,
when he became an independent
businessman, he put up a sign the size of
a billboard over his store which read,
“Meet the Man With a Smile.”
He reacts to such inspirational writings,
as these: “Ah, but a man’s reach should
exceed his grasp, or what’s a
Heaven for?”
“All things are possible to him who has
faith. Because faith
sees and recognizes the power that
means accomplishment.
Faith looks beyond all boundaries. It
transcends all limitations.
It penetrates all obstacles. And it sees
the goal. Faith never fails.
It is a miracle worker.”
“If thou canst believe, all things are
possible to him that
believeth.”
“ ’Tis the hardest thing in the world to
give everything, even
though ’tis usually the only way to get
everything.”
“What! Giving again? I ask in dismay,
and must I keep
giving and giving away? ‘Oh, no,’ said
the angel looking me
through, ‘just keep giving till the Master
stops giving to you.’”
NEVER GROW OLD
I predict that Henry J. Kaiser will live to
celebrate more than his hundredth
birthday. He himself says, “There are
those who never grow old in mind and
spirit and interest. How is it possible
never to grow old, really old? By
keeping young in all thinking, young in
imagination, fresh in spirit, heart and
soul. It can be accomplished!
“Mother used to say, ‘Henry, be sure you
practice what you
preach.’” He does! He says, “Work!
Put your life’s plan into determined
action and go after what you want with
all that’s in you!” He discovered from
experience, “The person who makes fun
and joy out of his work can leap out of
bed at dawn and work with zeal; work
becomes a habit.”
Never grow old! At the age of forty-
five, Henry J. Kaiser engaged in the $20
million project of building two hundred
miles of highway with five hundred
bridges in the interior of Cuba. It meant
organizing six thousand workers and
fighting serious obstacles. It was this
vast project that crystallized his idea to
employ the principle of the mastermind
alliance. He shared this enterprise with
other contractors through partnerships
and associations; thus he developed the
strength of combined knowledge, skill,
capital and manpower. This principle is
a most important ingredient in his
formula for effectively building
mammoth constructions with speed.
Kaiser’s experience in Cuba made it
easy for him to organize six large firms
into a cooperative enterprise known as
Six Companies, Incorporated. He
became chairman of the executive
committee. Through his guidance and
experience were built the Hoover,
Bonneville, Grand Coulee and Shasta
Dams, the piers of the San Francisco
Bay Bridge, levees on the Mississippi
River, and pipelines throughout the
Northwest, Southwest and in Mexico. At
the age of fifty-seven, he founded the
largest cement plant in the West, which
was the second largest in the world.
Keep in mind that throughout his life
when others said to him as they have to
you, “It can’t be done” he knocked out
the “t” and said to himself, “It can be
done!” And he did it.
Yes, never grow old. At about the
age of sixty, during World War II, he
built over one thousand five hundred
ships with such rapidity that he startled
the industry. He dared to think of new,
fast methods to get results. He founded
the first (and still the only) iron and steel
plant on the Pacific Coast at Fontana,
California. He built and operated two
magnesium plants. He supplied all of the
bulk cement used in the construction of
our Pacific fortifications. He operated
plants manufacturing aircraft parts, and
he managed the largest artillery shell
operations in the country.
THE MOST PRICELESS GIFT
Henry J. Kaiser inherited from his
mother “the most priceless gift”—an
inheritance that you or any father or
mother might pray to give to your
children. When Mary Kaiser was in her
late thirties, after her day’s work, she
spent hours as a voluntary nurse helping
the unfortunate. Often she said to her
son, “Henry, nothing is ever
accomplished without work. If I leave
you nothing else but the will to work, I
leave you the most priceless gift—the
joy of work!”
 “LOVE PEOPLE AND SERVE
THEM”
“It was my mother,” continued Mr.
Kaiser, “who first taught me some of the
greatest values in life—love of people
and the importance of serving others.
Mother was only forty-nine and I was
sixteen when she died in my arms—died
because of lack of medical care. The
thought of my mother, or your mother or
father, or children or loved ones dying
prematurely when a doctor or a good
hospital could save them—the thought of
such needless sacrifice of human lives
has always prodded me into action.”
Hundreds of thousands of persons
have received medical, surgical and
hospital care at low cost. Others who
suffered a speech paralysis can now
talk. The crippled have been restored to
useful lives in rehabilitation centers. All
this has happened because of the
inspiration of a mother who died in the
arms of her son because she was too
proud to ask for charity and too poor to
pay for medical care—a mother who
said to her son, “Love people and serve
them.” The Kaiser Foundation—a
nonprofit charitable trust—is only one of
the monuments to her memory.
HUMAN RELATIONS
Henry J. Kaiser knows how to get along
with people. Many feel that he has a
genius for developing good relations
with labor unions. He says, “The great
truths by which to live are simple. The
Sermon on the Mount and the Golden
Rule are simple. I always try to stress
the positive approach—down-to-earth
attitudes that can succeed. Here are
some of them:
“First—mutual acceptance,
recognition and confidence in each other,
secondly—honesty and integrity in our
dealings together; thirdly—in
bargaining, we must understand each
other, not bog down in double-talk or
demand lopsided victories.”
PRAYER
In each of Henry J. Kaiser’s speeches he
utters a prayer. In the sincerity and spirit
of the Man Whose Work Will Never End
this article closes with a reverent prayer
that Henry J. Kaiser will continue to live
for many years and thus add additional
momentum to the good work he has so
ably started.
HOW TO BECOME THE PERSON
YOU WANT TO BE Henry J. Kaiser
says:
1. “Know yourself and decide what you
want most of all to
make out of your life. Then write down
your goals and a plan to reach them.
2. “Use the great powers you can tap
through faith in God and the hidden
energies of your sown and subconscious
mind.
3. “Love people and serve them.
4. “Develop your positive traits of
character and personality.
5. “Work! Put your life’s plan into
determined action and go after what you
want with all that’s in you.”
Each man weighs his gifts from God on a
different scale. . .

“GOD HAS BEEN GOOD

TO ME”
by R. M. GOOD
For 25 years I watched him fight
cancer of the face. First, just a small
speck that began to grow larger; then,
year after year, I watched him go to the
hospital and have a bit more cut out each
time. As the years went by, his face was
hardly a face at all as more and more
was cut away. But always when he
returned, with what was left of that face,
he tried to smile and never once uttered
a complaint or seemed to be
downhearted.
He was a skilled mechanic and
finished carpenter—recognized as the
best in all the surrounding Ozark hills.
When he did a job he seemed to stand
back and survey it to see if there was
anything left out that could be added to
make it as nearly perfect as possible.
Then he would see some little place that
the average person would pass up and he
would be busy touching up this and that.
Then, when he had done his best again,
he would look it over and a smile of
contentment would come over his face.
I suspect he often said to himself, “My
work will be my face and my life.” I
doubt if he often looked in the mirror
and noticed that damaged face where
each day the cancer bit a mite deeper.
No matter how humble the home he
worked in, or how small the job, or how
crude the other work around and about,
it never seemed to bother him at all. This
was his work, and it had to be done
right. He appeared never to give a
glance at the work of others; a shoddy
job done by someone else was not his
concern. His own work seemed to be all
that mattered. Nevertheless, I suspect
when the job was done he had an inner
sense of pride and joy when he saw how
outstanding it was—but never once did I
hear him boast about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker
and weaker, his step was less sure, and
his hands did not move with the
confidence and speed that had so
characterized him. He was unable to do
many things he had done before.
However, no matter what the work or
pay, he always had an insatiable desire
to do a good job.
The help he was able to get was not able
to catch his vision; they thought he was
cranky to try so hard to complete each
and every detail. So more and more he
worked alone. He did not complain or
bitterly rail at the inefficiency of the
other fellow. He would just appear the
next morning by himself with no
explanation of the absence of his helper.
During the latter days when he had only
the shambles of a face, he would wrap it
up in a red bandana handkerchief,
leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the street, there
was always a cheery greeting. As time
went on and he found it more and more
difficult to say the words, often his
greeting would be given with a move of
his walking stick. This stick, too, was a
thing of beauty, carved out by his skillful
hands.
His life seemed to be filled with
contentment and peace. I am sure many
times he thanked God for those hands
and for the fact that they were marred in
no way.
He often would be missed about his
usual haunts for weeks, or perhaps
months, as he would make his journey to
the hospital for the surgeon to cut away a
little more. Then you would see him
again—a bit more gruesome. There
would be no complaint, no telling of his
operation and the pain. He would just
quietly go about the work that was
always awaiting his return.
In all of this quarter of a century, I never
knew him to come back with any
complaints or mention in any way the
pain. You would think there was nothing
the matter if you did not see his face.
When his days of labor seemed to be
coming to an end, his chief concern was
that his tools might be in good hands. He
sent for me one day and told me that he
wished I would find for him some young
man who would appreciate and properly
use them.
When I took a young man to see him
about the tools, there came over his face
a look of contentment and satisfaction.
His work was finished and he was ready
to cash in.
A few days before he died I went to see
him. He was walking in the yard. His
face was nearly completely covered
with bandages and only his eyes were
uncovered. As he hobbled about the
yard, he said to me, “I am going to keep
young just as long as I can.”
The day he died I went to see him again.
The odor in the room was so offensive
you could hardly stay there. What was
left of his face was a mass of scars and
there was really no longer anything to
cut away. You could tell he was in great
pain and had many a sleepless night, but
still there was no word of complaint.
I shall never forget his last words. Ever
afterwards they have made me ashamed
whenever I am inclined to complain.
Still, day after day, they are vivid in my
memory.
These words were: “God has been
awfully good to me. I have never had
any reason to complain.”
Poverty-stricken, paralyzed and rejected
he still
presented the world with the greatest
oratorio ever written—The Messiah . . .
HANDEL’S EASTER
MASTERPIECE
by HENRY N. FERGUSON
On a cold winter night in 1741, an
elderly stoop-shouldered man ambled
listlessly along a dark London street.
George Frederick Handel was starting
one of the aimless, despondent
wanderings which had become a nightly
ritual for him. As he walked, his tortured
mind flitted between the memories of
past glories and the hopeless despair of
the future. For four decades Handel had
written music which had won him the
adulation of the aristocracy of England
and the Continent. The favorite of
royalty, he had been showered with
many honors. And then, abruptly, court
society had turned on him. His once-
famous operas were broken up by gangs
of rowdies. It was only a matter of time
until Handel was reduced to abject
poverty.
A cerebral hemorrhage paralyzed his
right side. He was unable to walk, move
his right hand or write a note. Doctors
could give him no hope for recovery.
The old composer went to Aix-la-
Chapelle to take the baths. In spite of his
doctor’s warning that staying in the
scalding waters longer than three hours
at a time might kill him, Handel stayed in
nine hours at a stretch. Gradually inert
muscles took on new life. He began to
walk, his hand lost its paralysis.
As his health returned, Handel began
working again. In a frenzy of
creativeness, he wrote four operas in
quick succession. Again he found
himself the recipient of many honors.
And again the hand of fate struck him a
cruel blow.
Queen Caroline, who had long been
his patroness, died. Handel’s income
was immediately reduced. England
found herself in the grip of such a bitter
winter that fuel could not be wasted on
heating the theaters. All engagements
were canceled. Handel lived for a while
on money borrowed from friends. As he
sank deeper into debt, he lost his
creative spark. He felt old, tired and
hopelessly beaten.
On this night, as he tramped
restlessly along a deserted street, he
paused for a moment before the dark
outline of a church. In bitter self-pity he
pondered his situation. Why had God
permitted his creativeness to be
restored, only to let it be torn once more
from his grasp?
Head bent against the sting of an icy
wind, he made his way back to his
humble room. As he pushed open the
door he saw a package lying on the
table. Tearing off the wrappings, he saw
that it was the text of a musical
composition. It was entitled A Sacred
Oratorio.
Handel grunted contemptuously
when he saw that it was from a second-
rate poet, Charles Jennens. The note
asked if Handel would start work
immediately on the oratorio. A
postscript added the information that
“the Lord gave the Word.”
Handel leafed indifferently through
the oratorio. Suddenly a passage held his
eye: “He was despised and rejected of
men . . . He looked for someone to have
pity on him, but there was no man;
neither found He any to comfort Him.”
A sense of kinship warmed Handel’s
heart. He read on. “He trusted in God . .
. God did not leave his soul in Hell . . .
He will give you rest.”
The words, burning into his
consciousness, began to take on
meaning. “I know that my Redeemer
liveth . . . Rejoice . . . Hallelujah.”
The old fire that had inspired the
rulers of Europe began to rekindle.
Wondrous melodies bubbled up from the
seething caldron of his mind. He
grabbed a pen from the table and started
writing. With unbelievable swiftness his
notes filled page after page.
His manservant found him the next
morning, still bent over his make-shift
desk, still writing. Noiselessly he put
down the breakfast tray and slipped
quietly away. When he returned at noon,
the tray had not been touched.
For days the old servant watched
anxiously over his master. Handel
refused food. He wrote continuously.
Sometimes he would pause, striding up
and down, flailing the air with his arms.
When he finished the triumphant climax
to the “Hallelujah Chorus,” tears were
streaming down his cheeks. “I did think I
did see all Heaven before me and the
great God Himself!” he told his servant.
Handel labored like a man
possessed for 23 days. Then he
collapsed on his bed, exhausted, and
slept for 17 hours. On his desk lay the
score of the greatest oratorio ever
written—The Messiah.
Really worried now, Handel’s
servant sent for the doctor. But before
the physician arrived, the composer was
sitting up, yelling for food. He eased his
hunger pangs by wolfing down half a
ham, washing it down with tankards of
ale. Then he lit his pipe and joked with
his amazed doctor.
Although Handel was sure he had
composed a masterpiece, London
wanted no part of it and so he took The
Messiah to Ireland at the personal
invitation of the Lord Lieutenant. Handel
insisted that the proceeds of its
performance must go to charity.
Arriving in Dublin, Handel lost no
time merging two choirs and beginning
rehearsals. So many tickets were sold
for the first performance that notices
were published in the newspapers
begging the ladies not to wear their
hoopskirts to the concert and the men to
leave their swords at home. On April
13, 1742, crowds waited at the theater
doors for hours before the opening. The
response was tumultuous, even Handel
was awe-struck by his creation.
After his Dublin triumph, London
began begging to hear the work. It was
during the first London performance that
a strange thing happened. The audience,
carried away by the power of the
“Hallelujah Chorus” and following the
King’s example, arose in unison as
though by a prearranged signal. Since
then audiences the world over have
expressed a similar respect by rising at
the onset of this chorus and remaining
standing until its conclusion.
For the remainder of Handel’s life he
presented The Messiah annually. All the
proceeds went to the Foundling
Hospital, and in his will he bequeathed
the royalties from this work to the same
charity.
Handel once more ran the gamut of
misfortune, but never again did he permit
despair to get the upper hand. Age
robbed him of his vitality. He went
blind, but his unflagging spirit never
wavered.
On the evening of April 6, 1759—
Handel was 74—he attended a
performance of The Messiah. Suddenly
he collapsed. He was taken home and
put to bed. His spirit was still valiant,
but the flesh was beginning to weaken. “I
should like to die on Good Friday,” he
announced to his friends. And on April
13, the anniversary of the first
presentation of The Messiah, in accord
with his wish, the great composer’s soul
left his body forever.
For two hundred years now his spirit
has gone marching on in The Messiah, an
international symbol of the triumph of
hope over despair. For the genius of his
pen lighted a torch that has brought
illumination to the dark places of the
earth wherever there are voices to sing
and hearts that beat with courage. You
have an “unseen partner” who will help
you . . .

BREAK THE WORRY

HABIT
by DR. NORMAN VINCENT PEALE
Nobody does good work who tugs and
strains and is rigid about it. “Easy does
it” is the proper method.
The person who works the easiest
does the most in the shortest time and his
work shows the mark of skill. Don’t live
and work the hard way. We suggest that
you study and master the following rules
for making your work easy.
1. Drop the idea that you are Atlas
carrying the world on your shoulders.
The world would go on even without
you. Don’t take yourself so seriously.
2. Tell yourself that you like your
work. It may be difficult to make
yourself believe that, for you may have
talked yourself into hating it. Or you may
be a “fighter of the job,” that is to say,
you struggle against it rather than with it.
This emphasis on liking your job will
tend to make it a pleasure instead of a
drudgery. Perhaps you do not need to
change your job. Change yourself and
your work will seem different.
3. Plan your work for today and
every day, then work your plan. Lack of
system produces that “I’m swamped”
feeling. To arrange work in an orderly
way, and perform it in the same manner,
makes the total job infinitely easier.
4. Decide that you will not try to do
everything at once. That is why time is
spread out. Repeat the wise advice from
the Bible, “This one thing I do.” Say that
to yourself now, three times,
emphasizing the word one. One step at a
time will get you there much more surely
than haphazardly leaping and jumping. It
is the steady pace, the consistent speed
that leads most efficiently from start to
destination.
5. Practice becoming expert in
correct mental attitudes, remembering
that ease or difficulty in your work
depends upon how you think about it.
Think it is hard, and it is hard. Think it is
easy, and it is easy.
6. Determine now to restudy your
job for “Knowledge is power” (over
your job). It is always easier to do a
thing right. Make your own job analysis
to discover more right ways of doing
things. The right way is right because it
meets less resistance and is therefore
easier than the wrong way.
7. Practice being relaxed about your
work. Again remind yourself that “Easy
always does it.” Do not press or strain.
Take your work in your stride. One way
to do this is to repeat such a work
formula as the following: “I can handle
this job. I know this material or this
business. I am well informed about it
and am competent to deal with it;
therefore, I will have no fear or
nervousness about it and besides, God is
with me to help me.” This will give you
a feeling of peace and confidence and
you can do the job in a relaxed frame of
mind.
8. Discipline yourself not to put off
until tomorrow what you can do today.
Accumulations make the job harder than
it actually is or should be. Do not drag
yesterday’s burdens along with you.
Keep your work up to schedule. Spend a
minute now listing the things to do today,
and tomorrow, and the next day. This
will immediately relieve today’s burden,
for usually you do not need to do so
much right now as you nervously think
you do. If your mind gets the idea that
you have too much to do, it immediately
accepts tired thoughts, your energy
drops, and the job becomes heavy and
hard.
9. Pray about your work, today’s
work. You will get some of your best
ideas that way. Never start a day or any
job without praying about it.
10. Take on the “unseen partner.” It
is surprising the load He will take off
you. God is as much at home in offices,
factories, shops, as in churches. Do not
spurn God’s help, for He has broad
shoulders and strong arms and
wonderful ideas. All are available to
you. He knows more about your business
than you do. His help will make your
work easy.
A bright light guides your path to success
when you adopt . . .

A LIVING PHILOSOPHY
by W. CLEMENT STONE
The essence of a living philosophy is
that it must be alive. To be alive, it must
be lived, you must act! Actions, not mere
words, determine the validity of a man’s
living philosophy.
For faith without works is dead.
Whether he recognizes it or not,
everyone has a philosophy.
You become what you think. Now my
living philosophy is: First, God is
always a good God.
Secondly, truth will always be truth,
regardless of lack of
understanding, disbelief or ignorance.
Thirdly, man is the product of his
heredity, environment, physical body,
conscious and subconscious mind,
experience and particular position and
direction in time and space . . . and
something more, including powers know
and unknown. He has the power to
affect, use, control, or harmonize with
all of them.
Fourthly, man was created in the
image of God, and has the God-given
ability to direct his thoughts, control his
emotions and ordain his destiny.
Fifthly, Christianity is a dynamic,
living, growing experience. Its universal
principles are simple and enduring. For
example, the Golden Rule, “Do unto
others as you would have others do unto
you,” is simple in its concepts and
enduring and universal in its application.
But it must be applied to become alive.
Sixthly, I believe in prayer and the
miraculous power of prayer.
Now what does this philosophy mean to
me? It wouldn’t mean a thing unless I
lived it. To live it, I must apply it. And
therefore I shall give you an illustration
of how I apply it in a time of need. Then
it may be more meaningful to you.
In 1939 I owned an insurance agency
which represented a large Eastern
accident and health insurance company.
Over a thousand full-time licensed
agents were operating under my
supervision in every state in the United
States. My contract was verbal and
provided for exclusive distribution of a
specified series of accident policies.
Under this working agreement, the
business was owned by me. The
company printed the policies and paid
the claims. I assumed all other expenses.
It was spring. My family and I were
vacationing in Florida when I received a
letter from one of the chief executive
officers of the company. This letter was
brief: It stated that my services would be
terminated at the end of two weeks; my
license to represent the company, and the
licenses of all my representatives,
would be cancelled on that date; no
policies could be sold or renewed after
that date; and the president of the
company was leaving on a trip and
couldn’t be reached for two months.
I was faced with a serious problem. The
type of contract I had just wasn’t being
made any more. A new connection for a
national operation such as mine within
two weeks was an improbability. The
families of the one thousand
representatives who worked for me
would also have a problem if I didn’t
find a solution.
Now what do you do when you have a
serious personal problem—a physical,
mental, moral, spiritual, family, social or
business problem?
What do you do when the walls cave in?
What do you do when there is no place
to turn?
That’s the time your faith is tested. For
faith is mere daydreaming unless
applied. While true faith is applied
continuously, it is tested at the time of
your greatest need.
Now what would you have done if you
had been faced with my problem?
Here’s what I did:
I told no one, but cloistered by myself in
my bedroom for 45 minutes. There I
reasoned that God is always a good
God; right is right; and with every
disadvantage there is a greater
advantage if one seeks and finds it.
Then I kneeled down and thanked God
for my blessings: a healthy body, a
healthy mind, a wonderful wife and
children, the privilege of living in this
great land of freedom and unlimited
opportunity, and the joy of being alive. I
prayed for guidance. I prayed for help.
And I believed that I would receive
them.
And I did get into positive mental action!
On arising I began to engage in thinking
time. Four resolutions were made:
1. I wouldn’t be fired.
2. I would organize my own accident
and health company and by 1956 would
have the largest company of this kind in
the United States.
3. By 1956 a specific objective would
be reached. It was of such magnitude and
so personal that it would be improper to
mention it here; and
4. I would reach the president of the
company regardless of what part of the
world he might be in.
And then I got into physical action. I left
the house and drove to the nearest public
telephone booth to try to talk to the
company president. I succeeded because
I tried. The president was a kindly,
understanding man of principle. He gave
me permission to continue operations
upon my agreement to withdraw from the
state of Texas where the general agents
of the company were having some
competitive difficulties with my
representatives. We were to meet at the
home office in 90 days.
We did meet in 90 days. I am still
licensed for that company and continue
to give it business.
When 1956 came, the company I
organized in 1939 was not the largest
accident and health company in the
United States. But it was the world’s
largest stock company writing accident
and health insurance exclusively. My
specific personal objective had also
been achieved.
Now, what do you do when you have a
serious personal problem—a physical,
mental, moral, spiritual, family, social or
business problem? Your philosophy will
determine your answer.
Remember: the essence of a living
philosophy is that it must be alive. To be
alive, it must be lived. To be lived, you
must act! Actions, not mere words,
determine the validity of a man’s living
philosophy.
3 IDEAS
UNLIMITED
Ideas control the world. —
James A. Garfield
They used logic, planted tin cans and
innocently waited for the harvest.

LOGIC AND THE

UNKNOWN
by W. CLEMENT STONE
A small glass-bottomed boat
approached the sandy beach of Rum
Point on Grand Cayman Island in the
British West Indies. Gleason, the native
skipper, stopped at a coral reef . . . put
on his skindiving helmet . . . checked his
spear gun . . . dove into the water and
swam among the coral rocks. Within six
minutes he brought up five lobsters,
three red snappers and three conch
shells.
Conch salad properly seasoned . . .
fresh, tender, juicy lobster boiled in salt
water . . . snapper wrapped in aluminum
foil and cooked over an open fire on the
beach—what a lunch! And the
conversation among the five of us was
fascinating, informative and inspiring,
too. For I’m a good listener—always
searching for stories of true life
experiences.
Dr. Curtis Bowman, a well-known
Chicago surgeon, related his African
experiences and those of his wife,
Martha B. Bowman, author of the
fascinating book Ebony Madonna.
Here’s part of the conversation:
“It was when we were in the East
Belgian Congo that a wife of a
missionary asked her houseboy, who had
been with the family six years, ‘What are
you doing with the empty tin cans you
take away each evening?’
“ ‘Don’t you know?’ was the reply.
“ ‘No, but I would like to. Please tell
me. Just why do people buy them?’
“ ‘They buy them to use the same as you
do,’ the boy replied after some hesitation
and with apparent amazement.
“ ‘ I don’t really understand. Won’t you
please tell me exactly what is done with
the tin cans or how they are used?’ the
wife asked. And she was amazed when
she heard his answer. I know I was. You
will be, too. And here’s his answer:
“ ‘When we get our freedom, we’ll be
rich. We’ll have everything the white
man has. Now we plant the tin cans . . .
we bury them deep. Some day we too
will grow automobiles.’”
I commented: “He reasoned logically
from what his experience had taught him.
For throughout his young life, he had
seen beautiful flowers, edible crops and
great trees grow from the ground. It
seemed reasonable to him and his
customers that tin cans, properly planted,
would grow automobiles. But his
reasoning, like that of many of us, was
based on the wrong premises. For he
didn’t consider the unknown.”
Dr. Bowman then told us of some of his
experiences in learning about Africa.
“You see, my brother-in-law was a
missionary in Africa for many years.
With his instruction and help, we
traveled from one mission to another—
fifty-one mission stations in all. We
talked the language of the missionary.
The natives trusted us. They wanted to
help us. We were well received
everywhere. Although taking pictures of
native dances is taboo, we were given
the privilege to do so.”
“In Ebony Madonna your wife tells a
fascinating story of a native with leprosy
who returned to his own village when
cured. The natives didn’t believe
leprosy was curable and reacted
accordingly. What about leprosy? What
about the cures?” I asked.
“Africa has millions suffering from
leprosy.” And then he told me the
thrilling, exciting experiences of Dr.
Carl Kline Becker of Oicha Hospital,
Oicha Buna, Congo.
“An average of twelve hundred patients
a day are treated by Dr. Becker and his
staff besides the more than twenty-eight
hundred in his leper colony. Ninety per
cent of the patients are cured. Of course,
if an arm is eaten away, a new one is not
grown, but the disease is arrested and
the patient is permanently cured.”
As you have seen: The missionary’s
houseboy used logic, but the truth of how
automobiles come into existence was
unknown to him . . . he was ignorant of
the facts. The cure of the dreaded
disease leprosy is even today unknown
to millions. Yet 90 per cent of patients
are cured in the leprosarium. One
hundred per cent can be cured if given
medical attention in time.
So in reasoning, let’s start with what we
do know; use logic; but before coming to
conclusions, let’s reckon with the
importance of the unknown. For: Truth
will be truth regardless of any person’s
ignorance, disbelief or refusal to try to
understand. Meet an employer who
advocates reading on the job and
thinking with your feet—on the desk.

READ AND RELAX FOR

PROFIT
by CLAIRE COX
What would your boss do if he found
you tilted back in your chair, feet upon
your desk, reading a book or magazine
on company time?
Would he fire you?
Not if your boss was Norman L.
Cahners, millionaire inventor, innovator
and chairman of the board of the Cahners
Publishing Company—and if you were
reading something to help you in your
work.
Cahners, a robust man with an easy
smile not only has no objection to putting
feet on desks and reading at work; he
encourages both. Early in his highly
successful publishing career, which was
launched with an invention that helped
win World War II, Cahners, now forty-
five, realized that one of the secrets of
being a good employer was in practicing
what you preach. What is right for the
boss, he concluded, is right for his
employees. Men and women like to
work for a person who encourages them
to forge ahead.
This employer likes to sit back with his
feet on his desk. He also believes in
reading at work, if the material is
pertinent. So enthusiastic is he about
both, in fact, that he has launched a
campaign for on-the-job reading
programs throughout business and
industry to increase efficiency at work
and relaxation at home.
Being an idea man, Cahners has made
his own foot-on-desk reading periods as
comfortable as he can. He did it by
inventing a special footrest. When he
wants to think, dictate or read, he pulls
out the top drawer of his desk in his
peaceful, uncluttered, seventh-floor
Boston office, places a small footrest on
it, leans back and swings his feet into
position. He may look as if he is taking it
easy, but he maintains that some of his
most constructive work is done in this
restful posture.
“Employers should encourage on-the-job
reading,” he says, “as long as it has
something to do with the work. To keep
abreast of developments, it is difficult to
read at home, what with the competition
from television and other distractions.”
To illustrate how complicated the
reading problem can be, Cahners has
listed 2,160 technical and industrial
publications in this country alone. There
were 1,800 in 1949—and only 10 in
1850. The total circulation of all such
publications last year was more than 43
million—with far more actual readers.
“The technical man never stops
working,” Cahners explains. “His
leisure time and shorter working hours
give him more time—more time for
homework from work and it is
increasing every day.”
Cahners, by being what Madison Avenue
calls “a thinking man,” has solved his
own problems on this score. He
supervises the publication of fourteen
industrial and trade magazines, serves as
a corporation director, engages in a
number of philanthropic activities and
still finds time to putter around his
suburban Brookline, Massachusetts,
home with his wife and three children
and engage in his favorite pastime—
sailing off Bar Harbor, Maine.
Ever since he can remember, Cahners
has been a man in a Ever since he can
remember, Cahners has been a man in a
yard dash that no one has been able to
beat. He was a member of a U.S.
Olympic track team after he graduated
from Harvard in 1936, and still is
remembered at Harvard for his prowess
on the football field.
Born to a well-established family,
Cahners attended Phillips Academy at
Andover, Massachusetts, graduating in
1932. He is a member of the Andover
Alumni Council, where his pet interest is
in setting up scholarships so poor but
worthy boys can attend the famous Ivy
League prep school.
Cahners always has worked for himself
—except for his hitch in the Navy. His
first job after college was selling
furniture on the installment plan to rural
New Englanders. Before long, he had
several hundred persons stumping the
countryside for him. He learned quite a
bit about merchandising on that job—
enough to win him a naval decoration
later and start him on the road to bigger
things.
The day after Pearl Harbor was
attacked, Cahners decided not to wait
for his draft board to call him. He left
his job and enlisted in the Navy.
Because of his experience in moving
furniture from factory to home, he was
assigned to try to help solve the huge
wartime problem of getting supplies to
the fighting men.
What did Cahners do? He went into
action—Cahners style— by sitting back,
putting his feet on his desk and
pondering. The result was a series of
highly technical but unusually workable
innovations, including the use of a pallet
contraption that became the standard
wartime shipping platform for
everything from ammunition to chocolate
bars.
The Navy awarded Cahners a special
citation. Then, at official request, he
wrote a publication on war matériel
handling. It was a Navy periodical, but
request for copies streamed in from
civilian manufacturers.
This is what really set Cahners, the old
track star, into high speed. After he left
the service, he received official naval
approval to convert his Navy
publication to peacetime use. He
changed “matériel” to “materials” in a
new magazine called Modern Materials
Handling, which he gave away to
persons he thought should have it, letting
the advertisers foot the bills. By using
that magazine as a foundation, he has
built a publishing empire.
In the course of expanding his activities,
Cahners gave himself—and Western
Union—a boost by using the telegraph
company’s facilities to make surveys of
regular readers and seek new ones. This
was so successful that Western Union
now has an entire department devoted to
making special canvasses for
businesses.
Cahners hopes to bring his two sons into
his business with him, but one of them is
such a chip-off-the-old-rugged-
individualist-block that he wants to
branch out on his own. Both boys attend
Andover, but Cahner’s dream for both of
them to be Harvard men will not be
realized.
As the fourteenth member of his family
to attend Harvard, Cahners naturally
wanted to make it unanimous with
Robert, who is seventeen, and Andrew,
who is fifteen. But Robert has his own
ideas. Being independent he made his
own college arrangements and will enter
Dartmouth in the fall.
Robert wants to be a publisher, but of
his own periodicals, not his father’s.
Andrew has not made up his mind yet,
but is following in his father’s footsteps
in at least one respect. He is already a
track star at Andover though still only a
freshman.
The third Cahners child is nine-year-old,
red-haired Nancy, described by her
doting father as “the light of my life.”
Mrs. Cahners, the former Helene Rabb,
is a charming woman who shares her
husband’s love of people and working
with them. She is president of the Beth
Israel Hospital women’s auxiliary in
Boston.
This full-time, nonpaying job includes
two secretaries and an office staff. At
thirty-nine, Helene Cahners is the
youngest president ever to serve the
8,300-member organization.
As is the case with many a wife, Mrs.
Cahners had to bide her time for quite a
while before getting her first mink coat.
Her husband, who admits to being
economical despite the fact that he is a
millionaire, explains why. “I had to sit
with my feet on my desk and think about
it for a while first,” he says.
4 LOVE
UNLIMITED
To love is to place our
happiness in the happiness
of another. —Gottfried von
Liebnitz
TO ANY LITTLE BOY’S FATHER
There are little eyes upon you And
they’re watching night and day; There
are little ears that quickly Take in
everything you say.
There are little hands all eager To do
everything you do;
And a little boy who’s dreaming Of the
day he’ll be like you.
You’re the little fellow’s idol;
You’re the wisest of the wise. In his
little mind, about you No suspicions
ever rise.
He believes in you devoutly, Holds
that all you say and do, He will say and
do in your way, When he’s grown up,
just like you.
There’s a wide-eyed little fellow
Who believes you’re always right; And
his ears are always open And he
watches day and night.
You are setting an example Every
day in all you do;
For the little boy who’s waiting To grow
up and be like you.
—Anonymous He discovered a
symbol of true love when he read . . .

THE LETTER ON
YELLOW SCRATCH
PAPER
by W. CLEMENT STONE
The cab driver and I became quite
friendly as we conversed together while
riding from Kennedy Airport to uptown
New York last Monday.
You see, I try always to make a cab
trip in New York pay off with a human
interest story. And this trip was no
exception.
“Tell me about yourself and some of
your experiences,” I suggested. So
Louis, the cab driver, told me of a
strange experience he had had the
previous week. And when he did, I felt
he was ready—ready to talk about
himself and his family. So I directed his
mind in the desired channel with the
question: “Are those your four
children?” referring to a picture on the
dashboard in front of the steering wheel.
“Yes,” he answered, “they are wonderful
kids. We have a lot of fun together.” And
he kept talking.
By the time we were within a few
blocks of my destination, I sensed that he
had an inner urge to share with me
something very personal to him. And
now I share it with you; a symbol of love
—a letter written on yellow scratch pad
paper.
He had already shown me his wallet
with a picture of his wife when she was
a bride and colored snapshots of the
children. He had a loving word to say
about each.
Now he handed me the letter. It was
from his wife. She had handed it to him
when she kissed him as he left the front
door that morning.
“I suppose in every marriage there are
arguments from time to time,” he started.
Then continued, “My wife and I had
what some might call a family squabble
last night. She was griping about our
early marriage—when the children were
younger, telling me how other husbands
helped around the house and I did
nothing.
“Said she, ‘My brother Herman always
helped Helen when the children were
young. He would wash the dishes, even
scrub the floors. And Irene’s husband,
Tom, would make necessary repairs to
the furniture—he’d even change the
baby’s diapers and never complain. But
you—you weren’t helpful at all when the
children were young. You weren’t a
good father then.’
“You see,” he apologized to me, “as a
cab driver I worked twelve hours a day.
And my job was to make the money. I
made good money because I made every
hour count. Then when I got home, I was
tired. I needed sleep and some
relaxation.
“And look what we have to show for it,”
he continued. “A home of our own in
Queens, a good Chevy car, life
insurance, some money in the bank and a
summer home in upstate New York. In
the summer the family is on the lake. I
spend Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
with them. Because they are away, I
work an extra four hours Mondays,
Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.”
I began to read the letter and as I did so I
felt the emotions of its writer. Now you
will feel it too because of the love and
sincerity with which it was written. For
the following is part of what I read:
“I was wrong in finding fault with you. I
was dead wrong in complaining about
what you didn’t do when the children
were younger. I am humiliated that I
complained you weren’t a good father
then. For I know of no husband or father
that is more loving, kind and thoughtful
of his children and wife. You are
certainly doing the right thing for all of
us.
“And it was wrong for me to allow my
feeling of the past to interfere with our
happiness now. For we do have a happy
home. And now it is I who, with
faultfinding and nagging, have brought
unhappiness to you.
“I love you so very much. I have the
most wonderful husband in the world.
And my children have a most loving and
kind father. I hope you will forgive me.”
And as I handed the yellow page back to
Louie, he said, “This letter: It will never
be forgotten. For I will keep it forever.”
Christmas, from now on, will have a
deeper meaning for you after you
understand . . .

KELLEY’S CHRISTMAS
GIFT
by OG MANDINO
The month of December was cold
and wet and gloomy in England in 1944.
Although the tides of war had shifted in
favor of the Allies, our casualties still
continued high so our morale matched
the weather.
Our B-24 airbase, fifty miles north
of London, was just like a hundred
others spread carelessly over the face of
England and we were similar to all the
others in planes and personnel with one
exception—we had Kelley.
I don’t remember his first name but I
do recall he was a navigator . . . and a
good one. Kelley had habits that set him
apart from most of us who assumed a
phony air of boldness to hide our fear.
For one thing he was older than most of
us . . . probably near thirty. When we
went to London every two weeks and
raised unholy hell he remained behind
and wrote letters to his wife, his mother,
his son and every other relative whose
address he kept in a little brown book. A
forty-eight hour pass to Kelley meant
stuffing his duffel bag with candy bars
and canned food and bringing it to poor
families in the village. Before each
mission Kelley attended chapel services
while most of us slept those extra fifteen
minutes. Yes, to many of us, Kelley was
a strange guy.
Then, about two weeks before
Christmas, Kelley got an idea. He
decided that we would throw a
Christmas party on our base for all the
British kids that lived in the area. He
sold the idea to our Colonel and then he
assigned projects to all of us. It was
difficult to say no to Kelley . . . and
when we weren’t flying missions we had
plenty of time on our hands anyway.
Kelley set up collection boxes inside
the Post Exchange and I painted signs
that asked for contributions of candy
bars, chewing gum, canned fruit and
cookies from each man’s weekly
allotment purchase. We filled dozens of
boxes.
Then Kelley coaxed the mechanics
on the flight line to make toys from spare
parts and scrap metal. The carpenters
got into the act and began building toy
carts and crude rocking horses and even
the nurses made stuffed dolls and
animals. Everyone became involved and
Kelley kept the whole operation
coordinated in a way that would have
made General Motors proud.
 Two days before Christmas, the mess
hall began to look like Macy’s
warehouse . . . and Kelley was all
smiles . . . until someone reminded him
that we had no Christmas ornaments or
lights to hang. He solved this problem as
swiftly as he solved the others. He
commandeered boxes of silver chaff that
we dropped during our bombing
missions to confuse the enemy radar . . .
and we had our “icicles.” He had the
base electrician wire a couple of
hundred spare wing-tip lights to heavy
cable and we spent a morning coloring
them with paint that he produced from
Lord knows where.
On Christmas eve we decorated the
mess hall and although it was no
Rockefeller Plaza we were all proud of
our handiwork . . . even though none of
us would admit it. On the way back to
our barracks we got the “good news.”
We were flying a mission on Christmas
Day. You can imagine the remarks next
morning before, during and after the
briefing. We were all thinking the same
thing . . . what a day to die! Our mission,
of course, wasn’t going to affect the
Christmas party. The base personnel all
had their instructions from Kelley and
all the buses from the motor pool had
been assigned a special town or hamlet
where they were to go to pick up the
children.
When we returned on Christmas
afternoon, from what had been a rough
mission, we hurriedly changed clothes
and dashed to the mess hall as soon as
de-briefing was finished. The place was
bedlam. It looked like recess time at my
old grammar school. Kids were pushing
their new carts and toy trucks, little girls
skipped and danced with their new
stuffed dolls clutched tightly to their
breasts, while boys ran from one end of
the hall to the other holding their
miniature planes and imitating the
sounds of Spitfires and P-51’s. Every
smiling face was smeared with
chocolate . . . many for the first time
ever. The wing-tip lights blinked
overhead in multi-colored joy and
someone had found a phonograph which
was playing tinny but recognizable
Christmas carols. I watched for a few
moments remembering many happy
childhood Christmases of my own. Then
I left and slowly walked back to my
barracks. In the distance someone
gunned all four motors of a B-24,
drowning out the joyous shouts from the
hall.
I passed the chapel and then I
stopped. Without even knowing what I
was doing I found myself walking back
up the cobblestone walk and pulling
open the metal door.
I stepped inside for the first time
since I had been on the base. The outside
world quieted down. I felt myself
kneeling and before I could stop myself I
was sobbing. It was the first time I had
cried since my mother had died. Finally
I prayed . . . prayed for Kelley and the
rest of his crew whose plane I had
watched explode into flames after taking
a direct hit only a few hours ago.
Since that Christmas, so many years
ago, I never hear a Christmas carol or
watch a child open a Christmas gift
without remembering Kelley and
counting my own blessings. Why Kelley
is not here to enjoy each Christmas like
the rest of us is a question I stopped
asking myself . . . I finally realized that
Kelley’s gift to all of us was the same
priceless gift of sacrifice and love that
we all received from Him whose
birthday we celebrate on Christmas Day.
She was a stranger and he nearly
rejected her request . . .

AND THEN THERE WAS

LIGHT
by EARL STOWELL
Just a favor—granted almost
grudgingly—changed my whole life.
And because of that favor, in thousands
of homes special lamps are lighted every
night in unknowing tribute to a man
whose name I do not know and to a
woman’s love for that man.
These lamps bring a warm glow to
ranch houses at the very end of the
electrical lines in Arizona. They press
against the probing cold in rude farm
houses in Idaho. They light tiny homes of
coal or copper miners in Utah. They sit
on tables in the homes of the humble, the
well-to-do and the wealthy across
America. They are treasured because
each is handmade by someone in the
family or by a friend. The sparkling
beauty of the lamp is a constant reminder
of that person’s achievement.
Few know the story of the lamp.
Shortly after the Second World War, I
was quietly going broke in a plastic-
novelty manufacturing business. I had
reached a state of numbness, where all I
could do was work, snatch a few hours
sleep and work again– doing work I
could no longer afford to pay others to
do.
This particular afternoon, annoyance
swept over me when a woman, in her
mid-thirties and very pale, entered the
plant and put a cardboard box on the
counter. Her eyes focused somewhere
above my head. Words came in spurts
like handfuls of confetti thrown at me.
She wanted me to complete a pair of
lamps for her.
Almost rudely, I said that I was running a
factory, that I never did fix-it work. She
didn’t hear, for her words kept flicking
out at me. I began to realize that her
words had been rehearsed so many times
that once started they had to keep
tumbling over each other until they all
came out.
She was trembling. I began to listen.
“I . . . I could pay . . . 50 cents each
week. He left nothing . . . except these
lamps . . . and . . . he couldn’t even
finish them for me.”
Her fingers were white where she
gripped the edge of the counter. A great
shuddering sigh took complete
possession of her. She fought for breath
and went on. “He . . . did want to finish
them . . . before . . .” She stopped for a
moment. “Friends are getting me a job. It
won’t pay much. But I’ll be able to pay
50 cents a week. I don’t care for how
long. Charge anything.” Tears began to
flow down her cheeks.
Suddenly I was very small, very humble.
I looked in the box. The pattern of the
lamps was evident, just plastic blocks to
be piled up until the stack was high
enough. A larger piece was to act as the
base, smaller pieces for feet. My own
voice wasn’t under perfect control. I
kept my eyes on the box.
“There’s plenty of plastic here—some
extra. At least enough to pay for the
work.” I forced my eyes to meet hers.
For a moment she swayed; the effort had
drained her. She steadied herself and
uttered a single word.
“When?”
“Wednesday.”
She wheeled around. As the door shut
behind her, “Thank you—may God bless
. . . .” floated back.
I avoided working on the lamps. What
did I know about making lamps?
Besides, wouldn’t I just be making
something that would only remind her of
her pain? I couldn’t afford the time.
Time was money; I had little of either.
It was Tuesday afternoon before I
dumped the blocks out on the
workbench. I hated that pile of plastic. I
picked up one piece and began to grind
and polish it. Suddenly I was riding the
feeling of anticipation. The rough-cut
blocks began turning into diamond-like
pieces of polished crystal. I slowed
down for the first time in months, took
my time, enjoyed watching each block
become perfect under my fingers.
Then I drilled a hole through each block
and threaded them on a pipe nipple that
was to hold them together and carry the
electric wires. I added the base and the
feet and set the lamp on the bench. Then
I knew why I had dreaded the job. The
lamp that should mean so much to the
widow looked just like what it was—a
pile of plastic blocks. I felt a little sick.
Then, almost as if someone asked, I
wondered, “Suppose I turned every
other block a quarter-turn?” Almost
automatically I loosened the nuts on the
nipple and shifted the blocks. It was
magic. That pile of blocks was
transformed into a beautiful crystal lamp
fit to go into any home. With a feeling
that approached reverence, I assembled
the second lamp and placed it beside the
first. A glow seemed to surround them.
On Wednesday, I found myself
anticipating the woman’s return. It
seemed a long time before she walked
timidly toward the door. She hesitated
for a moment in the shade of the giant
tree that blocked the sky from the
window.
As she entered, I picked up one lamp in
each hand and set them before her. My
eyes were fixed on hers. I wanted her to
like those lamps—to really like them.
But I wasn’t prepared for the look of
amazement that captured her face.
My eyes followed hers and I caught my
breath.
A single piercing ray of bright sunlight
had fought its way through the big tree
outside the window. With pinpoint
accuracy it struck the top of the nearest
lamp. From there the light dripped from
block to block, twisting, turning,
reflecting as it went, making each
polished surface burn with a pure white
fire. The corners of the blocks acted as
prisms, shattered the light and cast
rainbows on the ceiling and down the
walls.
As the tree branch moved back and forth,
the ray of light struggled for freedom,
only to be trapped in the lamp again and
again. The whole room held something
unreal.
She raised questioning eyes to mine. I
nodded. A sudden sob shook her whole
body. She gathered the lamps to her
breast. “Thank . . . thank. . . .” she
choked and stumbled out the doorway.
She made her way unsteadily to a car
where someone waited for her.
A few weeks later the day came when
the long months of overwork demanded
their due from me. Four doctors, one
after another, looked wise, shook their
heads and said, “Subarachnoid
hemorrhage. If you recover, you must
never work more than four hours a day.”
When I got out of the Veterans’ Hospital,
my business was gone. The dollars I had
left wouldn’t even buy a good lawn
mower. Tangible assets were a few
hundred dollars’ worth of plastics, a
small stock of cements and dyes. I had
not been in the area long enough to
establish roots that could nurture me at
such a time. How could I support my
family?
Then I thought of high-school students
and their crafts classes. At a nearby high
school, I asked for and received
permission to demonstrate the working
of plastic. I explained how to cut, shape
and polish it. A student spoke up.
“That looks like fun, but what could we
make of it?”
Hopefully I looked at the instructor. He
shrugged.
“What can we make of it?”
I wasn’t prepared for the question. Then,
I sensed—rather than saw—the glowing
lamps. I sketched a lamp on the
blackboard. The instructor liked it. He
bought half my plastic. A few more calls
and my stock was gone.
Do you ever wonder if the big
companies in America have a heart?
Back home, I wrote four letters. I pulled
no punches. I simply stated my
condition; questionable physical
condition, no money, no assured market,
only an idea. I sent one to a plastic
manufacturer (probably one of the
largest American companies), one to a
manufacturer of metal lamp parts, one to
a cement and dye manufacturer, and one
to a lamp socket company.
The first three answered at once. They
offered 90-day credit on more supplies
than I needed. I bought lamp sockets at
the dime store as I needed them.
Then a difficulty: Plastic was too
expensive for schools to keep much on
hand. I remembered how the first lamps
had come to my shop in rough cut form. I
cut parts for a hundred lamps and
wrapped them with the necessary lamp
fittings in separate packages. I offered
these kits to the schools.
That started it. I was soon busy cutting
and delivering lamp kits.
Yes, thousands of students and adults
will light these lamps tonight. Thousands
of lamps will burn in tribute to a
woman’s love—and to a man who
wanted to finish a pair of lamps so that
the woman he loved would not have to
move in darkness. Love often reflects
itself in a promise made—and a promise
kept . . .
“AND THEY LIVED
HAPPILY EVER AFTER”
by W. CLEMENT STONE
“Daddy, you promised to read me a
story.”
That’s what Lou Fink heard his four-
year-old son Kent say. It was late Friday
evening. Lou had arrived home from the
office too late to have dinner with Kent.
And Lou hadn’t bothered to call Peg.
Peg, like thousands of housewives and
mothers, worried while she waited as
the minutes, and then the hours passed
by.
“The streets are slippery. He may
have had an auto accident. Certainly Lou
could have called,” Peg thought. Peg
didn’t like the uncertainty, and she didn’t
like worrying.
But now that Lou was home, he
could listen to Kent’s prayers and then
put him to bed. She could salvage the
roast from the oven. So Peg went to the
kitchen while Lou carried Kent to his
bedroom.
“Daddy, will you tell me a story?”
“Daddy will tell you a story tomorrow
night,” Peg called out. “Daddy, last night
you promised that if I went to sleep right
away you would tell me a story tonight.
And I did go to sleep right away. You
promised me, Dad. You promised me.”
Lou looked at Kent and said, “A
promise is a promise, and a deal is a
deal. Always remember that son.”
So Lou began to tell Kent the fairy tale
of the six-year-old boy who was a friend
to all the animals in the forest. He knew
each of them by name, and he could
speak their language. For he understood
them and they understood him. And all
this was possible because the boy had
magical powers. But he had these
powers only so long as he lived up to his
promises.
Now, before Lou arrived at that part of
the fairy tale where the young boy broke
a promise to himself and consequently
lost his magical powers, Kent fell
asleep. He was tired. And perhaps the
story had had a sleepy effect on Lou as
well, for Lou himself was asleep when
Peg awakened him and said: “Dear,
dinner is ready. It may be burnt, but it’s
late and I’m half starved. I didn’t stop
for lunch today.”
A promise is a promise and a deal is a
deal kept flashing through Lou’s mind as
he and Peg chatted during their dinner.
And that is quite understandable. For a
great fairy tale has deep roots that reach
into the subconscious mind.
After dinner Lou pushed his chair away
from the table slightly, lit a cigar and
said: “Did you know that a deal is a deal
— a promise is a promise?”
Peg only smiled. For she knew from
experience that Lou was thinking out
loud. She knew he would continue. And
Lou did continue. “Decent people try to
live up to their promises to other
persons. Isn’t that true? A person does
try to live up to his promises to others.”
Peg smiled and said nothing.
“But what about the promises to
themselves? And what about all the New
Year’s resolutions that were made only a
couple of months ago? Just think what
wonderful things would have been
achieved by people who made promises
to themselves if they had lived up to
those promises as diligently as they live
up to their promises to others.
“And yet aren’t promises to one’s self
just as important? Aren’t they even more
important than promises made to others?
Shouldn’t one try to live up to them just
as diligently?
“And I’ve been thinking: Isn’t it true that
the difference between a successful
person and mediocrity or failure is in
proportion to that person’s efforts to live
up to the promises he makes to himself?
“I doubt if Helen would have had that
heart attack had she lived up to her
previous New Year’s resolution to diet
intelligently. We know she went to the
doctor and he gave her a scientific diet.
But after a few months she seemed to eat
more than ever before.
“And Joe’s family wouldn’t be on relief.
Joe wouldn’t be sleeping in the gutters—
if he had lived up to his New Year’s
resolution to stop drinking entirely.
“And how about Howard Smith?
Howard wouldn’t have been kicked out
of Princeton if he had done his
homework every day, just as he
promised himself that he would last
New Year’s Eve at our party here.”
Peg smiled.
“And, Peg, I made a promise too. And I
just discovered what’s really important
to me is that I keep that promise to
myself.”
Peg stopped smiling, for she saw that
Lou was serious. Very serious. And she
listened intently as he continued: “Peg,
last New Year’s Eve I made a solemn
vow to myself. And I promised God that
every day of the new year I would try to
show my appreciation for the blessings
He has given me: you and Kent.
“I promised to make you happy in those
little things in which I have been lax.”
Lou looked directly into Peg’s eyes as he
said, “Peg, you can count on me to be
home in time for dinner in the future.
And you know I do keep my promises to
others. From now on I shall also live up
to the promises I make to myself. Should
an emergency arise, I shall at least
telephone you in plenty of time. You
won’t need to worry. And I know the
reason you do worry is because you love
me so.”
Peg smiled again. But she stopped
listening. She came over and put her
arms around Lou and kissed him. And
then she confided: “I made a New
Year’s promise to myself too, I promised
that the next time you came home late
without notifying me, I wouldn’t make
your life miserable as I have in the past.
It was difficult, but tonight I did live up
to my promise. And, Lou, I did find that
it pays to keep one’s promises to one’s
self.”
“And they lived happily ever after.”
5 COURAGE
UNLIMITED
Courage grows from the
heart. –John Dryden
He came back from the shadows of death
and inspired millions with hope.

HOGAN
by OG MANDINO
They played the U.S. Open back in
June, 1965, without the greatest
professional golfer that ever lived. Ben
Hogan, when told that he and all
previous Open winners except the last
five had to qualify for the “opportunity”
to play in this year’s Open, decided to
sit this one out and watch television
make heroes out of golfers that included
many who never saw the day they could
carry his golf clubs.
At the Colonial Open, a few months
ago, Ben Hogan was presented with a
trophy inscribed to “The Greatest
Professional Golfer in History.” As Ben
accepted this award I wonder if the
memory of a morning sixteen years ago
flashed briefly across his mind.
Ben had just lost a play-off to Jimmy
Demaret at Phoenix after winning the
Bing Crosby Invitational and the Long
Beach Open. He was tired and his thirty-
seven-year-old legs were weary from
the constant high pressure of tournament
competition. He and his wife Valerie
decided to pass up the next tournament at
Tucson, and they headed for Fort Worth
and home.
It was an early February morning in
1949. Patches of dark fog rolled like
tumbleweed across prairie Highway 80.
Ben’s automobile headlights cut an
abbreviated path through the mist. He
drove slowly along the right shoulder of
the road as he and Valerie, relaxing for
the first time in months, chatted and
planned their vacation. When Ben saw
the oncoming headlights of a giant six-
wheeler truck he inched closer to the
culvert on his right. Suddenly two more
headlights appeared in the fog. They
lined up with the first pair to fill the
narrow road as a Greyhound bus
attempted to pass the six-wheeler. There
was no room for the Hogan car.
Ben instinctively threw his body
across Valerie a fraction of a second
before the car and bus collided with a
sickening crunch. The impact slammed
the car engine back into the passenger
compartment and the steering wheel was
driven through the driver’s seat. Ben’s
effort to save Valerie had prevented his
own instant death.
When his broken body was removed
from the wreckage it lay at the side of
the road for nearly two hours because no
one remembered to call an ambulance.
Valerie, saved from serious injury by her
husband’s heroic action, watched
helplessly as the little champion’s color
continued to fade. After the ambulance
finally arrived there was a tortuous
drive of 120 miles to the Hotel Dieu
Hospital in El Paso. Ben had a fractured
pelvis, a fractured shoulder, fractured
ribs and a shattered ankle. Worst of all
he was suffering from severe shock.
For thirty days Ben lay immobile, his
body encased in plaster from chest to
toes. Then he met a tougher competitor
for his life. A blood clot formed in his
leg and began its journey toward his
heart. Ben’s desperate friends placed the
dying man on an Air Force bomber and
flew him to New Orleans. He was
nearly dead when the famed surgeon, Dr.
Ochsner, operated and tied off the vena
cava, a large vein which funnels blood
into the right auricle of the heart. Sports
editors throughout the country began
passing out assignments to prepare Ben
Hogan’s obituary while they awaited
word from the hospital. They waited in
vain.
A week after the operation, letters
began arriving for Ben from every
corner of the world . . . each with the
same message. The sender was praying
for Ben’s recovery. As Ben said later, “I
had never experienced anything like that
and I guess it was because I never
played up to the crowds. I had always
concentrated so hard on making every
shot that I never allowed myself to pay
attention to the gallery. Now they were
writing by the thousands and it was a
humbling experience to know that so
many strangers really cared what
happened to me.”
Within a month Ben was home and
beginning the slow process of learning
how to walk again. He weighed 96
pounds. That he would never play golf
again was a foregone conclusion—
except to Ben.
One morning, with sheer will power,
he took his first step. He stumbled. He
tried again and soon he was walking
back and forth across the bedroom. Then
he moved into the living room and began
to complete lap after lap around the
furniture while Valerie watched with
pride and tearful admiration. Soon he
began squeezing rubber balls to rebuild
his arms and wrists.
One day he asked Valerie to bring
him a golf club and using it as a cane he
announced that he was going to walk
around the block. The walks often
seemed endless to Valerie, but Ben had
developed his own system. He would
walk as far as he could and then stop to
rest. Each day he went farther and
farther until finally he could circle the
block nonstop. He was using the same
system that had made him a champion:
practice, concentration, practice,
concentration. Because of his rearranged
blood system his muscles continued to
cramp and tire on him but he refused to
quit. He tried swinging a club but the
fractured shoulder and pelvis were
taking long months to heal and his swing
looked like that of a first-time-out duffer.
One morning in early fall an excited
murmur raced through the Colonial
Country Club. Members and club
employees alike all stopped what they
were doing and watched with
fascination. Ben Hogan was on the
putting green! Soon he began to walk
with friends for a hole or two. In
December he went out on the course and
began playing . . . first one hole, then
two, but the circulation still refused to
function properly and his legs continued
to swell. He carried a portable chair
along and rested between shots. One day
he tried playing an entire round. He paid
for that by spending the next two days in
bed.
In January, 1950, less than a year
after his accident, Ben confounded every
sportswriter in the country by entering
the Los Angeles Open. Those in the
know were betting that his legs would
never carry him through the torturous 72
holes.
When he teed off for the first round,
he had played less than eighty holes of
golf since his accident. He came in with
a 73! Next day he shot a 69! He
followed that with another 69, and the
same sportswriters who had written Ben
off now began filling columns about the
“comeback of the century.” On the final
day he tacked another 69 to his score,
but Sammy Snead turned in one of the
most sensational final rounds in the
history of tournament golf and tied Ben
with a 280 total for the 72 holes.
The following day Sam beat an
exhausted Hogan in the playoff, but Ben
was not disappointed. He had proven to
himself that he was still a pro. He had
also become a symbol for people with
handicaps throughout the world, and
another deluge of letters arrived at the
Hogan residence. Now he was
convinced that there was only one way
to truly give these people the boost in
morale they all sought. He had to win a
major tournament. He set his sights on
the U.S. Open in June.
The weather was hot and humid
when the Open got under way at the
Merion Country Club in Ardmore,
Pennsylvania, on June 8. Sammy Snead
was the favorite but the largest gallery
followed Hogan. He shot a 72 on
opening day which placed him eight
strokes behind a young pro from
Alabama who fired off a 64.
On Friday, Ben’s putts began to drop
and he limped in with a 69 to move
within two strokes of the leader, Dutch
Harrison. But Ben was already
beginning to pay a horrible price in
bodily torture. On the way back to the
hotel with Valerie and his attorney, he
had the car stopped while he fought off
nausea and dizziness. Back in their hotel
room Valerie helped him unwrap yards
of rubber bandages from his swollen
legs and then gently half-carried him to a
warm bath where Ben sat for hours to
ease the tightened muscles.
On Saturday he faced the toughest
playing day of his career. Every nerve in
his body seemed to be on fire while his
legs, still swollen, had to carry him eight
miles over 36 holes of pressure golf, 18
in the morning and another 18 in the
afternoon. The temperature was in the
mid-nineties and Ben was already
drawing on that special reservoir that all
champions have—guts.
 He played the morning round in 72
and, since he always played against the
course, not the individual players, he
figured another 72 in the afternoon
would give him the championship.
When he teed off for the final round,
the huge gallery could see the obvious
pain in the little man’s face but it never
showed in his swing. Perfected by
thousands of hours of practice and
hardened by ten years of professional
competition, the precision that prompted
one writer to compare Ben’s swing to “a
machine stamping out bottle caps” was
still evident.
Ben made one concession to his
disabilities. He had his caddy pick the
ball out of the cup after he holed out on
each hole to save him from bending his
knees. He clicked off the first nine in the
afternoon in 36 but, after he teed off on
the tenth hole, a knifelike spasm shot
through his left leg. Momentarily he was
unable to walk and by the time he had
completed the thirteenth hole he had
decided to quit. The pain was
unbearable. He could not move his leg.
But as he tottered off the green toward
an official he remembered all the letters
he had received. How many people
would he disappoint? How many would
quit in their own personal struggle to
overcome a handicap if their idol, Ben
Hogan, quit?
He stumbled toward the fourteenth
tee. His body was drenched in
perspiration, some from the weather,
more from the pain.
He lost a stroke to par on the
fifteenth hole and another on the
seventeenth. Just before teeing off on the
last hole an official told him that he
needed a par four to tie for the
championship. A pained smile flickered
across Ben’s face. If he parred this hole
he’d have to come out here tomorrow
and play eighteen more holes of torture
against two of the best golfers in the
business, Lloyd Mangrum and George
Fazio.
His drive cut the heart of the fairway
and, as he approached his second shot he
could already hear the standing ovation
from the crowd surrounding the
eighteenth green. Now his left leg was
almost numb and there was a dull pain
around his pelvic area. Common sense
kept telling him to miss a shot and end
the nightmare. He couldn’t conceive
playing another eighteen holes
tomorrow; still his second shot was
perfectly placed on the green and he was
down in two putts to tie for the
championship. The habit of always
trying to do his best, no matter what the
odds, had been too strong.
That night Ben slept the sleep of
exhaustion but he arose refreshed and the
swelling in his legs had almost
disappeared. He played that day like the
Hogan of old, shot a 69, and won the
Open title by four strokes.
 Ben won many more titles after that,
but the indomitable courage of the little
champion has placed those five rounds
of golf high on the list of all-time athletic
achievements. It was a triumph of mind
and heart over physical adversity. It was
an inspiration to millions who, day by
day, struggle to overcome their own
physical infirmities. It’s a story that
needed retelling because a new
generation has already reached
adulthood since Ben Hogan had his
personal rendezvous with destiny on
Highway 80.
But they wouldn’t let Ben play in the
Open. They thought he should “qualify.”
In my book he qualified a long time ago.
He left his legs in a foxhole but he still
considers himself . . .

THE LUCKIEST MAN

ALIVE
by RAYMOND A. TETZLAFF
Cheers of encouragement echoed
through the halls of Percy Jones Hospital
as war amputee Paul Kephart took his
first cautious steps on his new artificial
legs. He grinned right along with his
appreciative audience of nurses, doctors
and ward buddies as they watched him
solo awkwardly on the limbs that would
soon carry him back to a life of activity
—and home.
“It was September, 1944, in Brest,
France, when I lost my legs,” Kephard
reminisces. “The German shells were
coming fast, shrieking and whining all
around me. I plunged into a foxhole, but
my legs stuck out. The next shell got
them—quick and simple as that.”
Paul literally got back on his feet at
the hospital. He tells of endless hours of
practicing: climbing stairs, walking in
crowds, in and out of cars, up and down
all manner of inclines. “I had to learn to
walk all over again,” he said. “But
during the many months of uncertainty,
anxiety and operations, those wonderful
people at the hospital never let me give
in to discouragement. Slowly, I began to
realize that I had been given just one life
to live, and that the way I was meant to
do it was standing up.”
Kephard now lives in a ranch-style
house in Beloit, Wisconsin, with his
wife and two pretty young daughters
who like nothing better than to join their
Dad in a variety of sports. “He’s a good
dancer, too,” they add whenever they
speak of his many accomplishments.
As a salesman for National Biscuit
Company, he drives a car and walks,
climbs and carries with the best of them.
A recent incident reveals just how much
of a workout he gives his standin legs. “I
returned them to a manufacturer not long
ago,” he said, “because the rivets and
bolts had pulled loose. They wanted to
know why my legs showed such unusual
wear. It gave me a good feeling to be
able to confess that they got beaten up
from bowling, golfing, kicking a
football, playing basketball and even
climbing up a ladder to fix my roof.
Could be, I’m a little too rough on
them.”
Paul is president of the Elks Club
bowling league. His average is 160, but
he keeps aiming for the record he set for
himself when he rolled a high of 256.
Doctors often ask Kephart to visit
other amputees. It gives them
encouragement to know a man who
makes a good life for himself and his
family, even though both legs are gone.
“I usually try to leave such people with
the thought that ruling out self-pity is the
first step to rehabilitation,” he says
thoughtfully, doubtless recalling his own
long struggle.
In 1947, Paul had an opportunity to
prove that the roots of courage grow
deep and strong within those who have
found compensation for their handicaps.
He was one of a party on a moonlight
boat ride when another boat came
hurtling out of the shadows to split his
craft in two. Eleven people were thrown
into the water. Kephart clung to the
airhorns of the floating prow and
managed to pull two struggling women
to the safety of his bit of wreckage.
Then, with one arm supporting them, he
used the other to gather a frightened
eight-year-old girl into his group to
await rescue.
 Kephart’s remarkable ability to
function bravely and effectively under
such tragic circumstances caused
Congresswoman Edith N. Rogers to
report his feat to the government. It was
made a part of the Congressional
Record.
Paul Kephart’s grin widens as he
flips a deprecatory hand over all this.
“Don’t call me hero,” he protests. “I’m
just the luckiest man alive. I have
everything—my family, home and
friends. And best of all, I know that I can
help others learn how to live. Sometimes
I wonder just how grateful I can get!”
Paralyzed in a car crash, a promising
young artist gained faith and fulfilled
his destiny.
PORTRAIT OF COURAGE
by THEODORE VRETTOS
On a warm August day in 1951, a car
carrying five boys sped wildly over a
winding road on the outskirts of Exeter,
New Hampshire. It was several minutes
past one o’clock and the boys were
anxious to return to their summer jobs in
an apple orchard nearby.
Glen Fowler sat apprehensively in
the rear seat while the car careened
noisily around the sharp corners.
Suddenly and without warning, the car
came to a hairpin curve which the driver
was unable to negotiate. . . .
In a matter of moments an ambulance
hurried to the scene— four of the boys
were rushed to Exeter’s hospital. The
fifth, Glen Fowler, was left in the
wrecked car, presumably dead.
For two hours, Glen remained there
unconscious. Then the ambulance finally
came back for him, the doctors felt his
pulse and discovered a faint beat.
Quickly, they rushed Glen to the same
hospital. But when the team of surgeons
waiting there to operate on the boy saw
him they shook their heads. The youth’s
neck was broken in three places, and he
appeared to be paralyzed from head to
foot.
They treated him for shock, wrapped
him warmly in blankets, and rushed him
under police escort to the Deaconess
Hospital in Boston. There, the boy was
subjected to an exhausting series of
examinations. Hundreds of reflex tests
could prove only one thing: Glen
Fowler, at the age of seventeen, had
been changed into a useless
quadriplegic. A large nerve at the base
of his neck leading from the central
nervous system was severed beyond
repair. This prevented any brain
messages from reaching his four limbs.
Glen remained on his back for five
painful months, strapped with weights
and splints. With most of his body
already dead, he prayed that the rest of
him would not live. Gradually, he began
to mistrust both himself and God and
withdrew completely from all contacts
with the outside world.
 Alarmed over his weakening
condition, the doctors at Deaconess
decided to transfer Glen to the
Massachusetts Hospital School in
Canton. Here, he was placed under a
strenuous program of occupational and
physiotherapy. But he showed no desire
to help himself, and his condition grew
worse.
One day an attractive nurse named
Joanne Rogers walked into his room.
“Hello, grouch!” she said cheerfully.
He did not reply. When he looked into
her smiling face and saw how her eyes
danced to an inner vitality, it made him
bitterly resentful.
“Are you going to stay in that bed the
rest of your life?” Joanne teased. When
again he did not answer, she stepped out
of his room momentarily and came back
with a wheelchair. “Come,” she said,
“you and I are taking a spin together.”
But Glen wanted no part of that
wheelchair. He closed his eyes and tried
to slump back into his bed until she left
the room. However, Joanne did not give
up. She came back the next day— and
the next. Each time, she placed the
wheelchair at the base of Glen’s bed.
Finally, on an impulse to please her, he
agreed to try it. While Joanne held him
firmly under the armpits, he managed to
slide from the edge of his bed into the
wheelchair. It was a long and tedious
task, but Joanne did not seem to mind.
Time ticked off a year while she cajoled,
scolded and encouraged him. Slowly, he
began to like the chair—grudgingly at
first, then with a warming sense of
looking forward to the routine.
Now the first step was over. The desire
to live had been resurrected within his
heart, but there still remained a more
difficult obstacle to be overcome: a lack
of interest in any occupation.
While in high school, Glen had shown a
remarkable aptitude for art. He had won
several awards and his work was
rapidly being recognized in North Shore
art circles at the time of the accident. But
that was all part of the past, Glen
reminded himself as he closed his mind
to his dreams of becoming a great
painter. In his despair he rejected an
unjust God who first gave him a talent
and then took it away.
One day, deep in the throes of
melancholy, he suddenly experienced an
overwhelming urge to express his
feelings in the one way he knew—on
canvas. He asked one of the doctors for
a brush and paints.
When the materials were brought into his
room and placed on his bed the air
seemed charged with tension. The doctor
helped Glen into his wheelchair and
watched silently as the young patient
strained to pick up one of the brushes.
Every muscle in his warped body tugged
and pulled in an effort to grip the brush
in his finger—but it was hopeless.
The doctor moved close to Glen. He
took the brush and held it before his eyes
and, with no trace of pity in his voice,
said, “Glen, this isn’t as bad as it seems
to you at the moment. I realize that you
have no strength in your arms—but from
your neck up, you are strong.”
“Do you expect me to paint with my
neck?” Glen asked rebelliously.
“With your teeth, Glen, your teeth!” the
doctor said.
Glen tried to laugh, but even this pained
him. “You’ve had your fun for today,
Doc,” he snapped, “Now go away and
leave me alone!”
The doctor persisted. “Glen, this is not a
joke—believe me. There is no
difference between controlling a brush
with your fingers and doing the same
thing with your teeth. In fact, you can get
a firmer grip with your teeth.”
“So you want me to paint with my
teeth?” Glen’s attempt at a laugh was
bitter.
“Glen, do you think that God’s gift to you
is limited to your fingers?” the doctor
asked as he touched him gently on the
arm. “An artist is great, not in his
fingers, but in his heart and soul.”
The doctor left the room then, and his
words began to burn their way into
Glen’s mind. When he was certain that
he was alone, he bent toward the bed
and seized one of the brushes in his
teeth. Moving his head awkwardly, he
dipped it into a small container of red
paint and with slow, painful strokes
began to paint. There was something
desperate and frightening in the wild
dashes of red—but the work was his
own, his very own!
Taking a deep breath, he reached for
another brush and a fresh piece of paper.
This time he was careful and patient. He
worked with deliberation and
determination, even stopping several
times to clean his brushes. Finally, he
leaned back exhausted but happy, and
viewed his first painting. It was crude
and uneven, but it vibrated with meaning
—a quiet pastoral scene with mountains
and a stream and colorful trees lay
before him.
Glen was now ready to go home. After
five years in the hospital, his first
concern was how to pay off the
enormous bills from the hospital and the
doctors. His father’s salary at the Navy
Yard was scarcely adequate to feed and
clothe a wife and four younger children,
let alone cope with $10,000 in medical
expenses.
Fortunately, accident insurance would
cover almost half of the bill, but that still
left more than $5,000 to cast its shadows
on Glen’s already overburdened mind.
On an impulse, he decided to enroll at
the Famous Artists School in Westport,
Connecticut. After submitting a few of
his drawings, he was granted a full
three-year scholarship, and hope opened
its compassionate arms to welcome him.
Glen held his first exhibition before he
had completed his work at the art
school. When the show closed, he had
sold over twenty paintings for a total of
$1,200.
This was but a starter for other sales to
follow. Within a matter of months, 150
of his paintings had been purchased. He
was soon able to meet not only his own
medical bills but also to free his family
from debt.
Many honors and awards have come to
this young man since then. And not the
least of these is a charming wife—the
devoted Joanne Rogers who first
encouraged him to return to life in a
hospital ward. They were married in
Glen’s family home in Newburyport in
1958, then moved to Beverly,
Massachusetts, where Joanne works the
three-to-seven shift at the local hospital.
“I am a happy man,” Glen says. “Not
only am I fulfilling the work that I was
meant to do, but I have regained my faith
in God and in myself.”
6 MIND
UNLIMITED
It is the mind that maketh
good or ill, that maketh
wretch or happy, rich or
poor. —Edmund Spenser
Here’s the secret of preparing your
mind to achieve any goal you set for
yourself.

THE SUREST WAY IN THE

WORLD TO ATTRACT
SUCCESS—OR FAILURE
by HAROLD SHERMAN
“You might know this would happen to
me!”
Is this a comment you have made, not
once, but many times, when things have
gone wrong? It’s human nature to feel,
when something unhappy has happened,
that it may happen again. Your fear of it
may cause you to picture the possibility
of its recurrence and, without realizing
it, you have set forces in motion to
attract similar conditions to you. Then,
when face to face with another
unpleasant experience, you testify to the
fact that you have anticipated it, have
even helped create it by saying, “You
might know this would happen to me!”
Certainly—you knew it was going to
happen—and it did. Your faith in “things
going wrong” caused the “power of
TNT” within you to work against you
instead of for you.
There is a great law of mind by
which your thinking and your conduct
should always be guided: “Like attracts
like.”
Think good thoughts; you will eventually
attract good things. Think bad thoughts,
you will ultimately attract bad things.
Simple—easy to remember—but also
easy to forget. Even though you know the
consequences of harboring destructive,
apprehensive emotions—when fear and
worry assail you—don’t you often
permit them to exist within your
consciousness? We all do.
That’s why our prayers for deliverance
from a difficult or distressing situation
are not answered.
You must prepare your mind to receive
that for which you are asking before you
can attract it to you—before the God
Power within can help bring it to you?
How is this done? By giving the God
Power the right mental pictures to work
with—reinforced by your faith in God as
well as in yourself.
Check back now on some of your
prayers that were not answered. How
did you feel at the time—what were your
thoughts? Did you picture clearly and
calmly and confidently, in your mind’s
eye, what you wanted the God Power to
help attract to you? Or through fear did
you keep on picturing the trouble you
were in? If you did, then these very
pictures only intensified your trouble,
made it more a part of you.
Every time your “voice of fear” talks to
you while you are praying, pouring such
hopeless, negative thoughts into your
consciousness as: “Prayer won’t do any
good; you can’t get out of this fix; it’s
going to be worse tomorrow,” you can
be sure that your troubles will not be
relieved.
There is a great truth in the old, old
saying: “God helps those who help
themselves.”
The surest way in the world to attract
trouble is to picture the possibility of
more trouble coming to you!
This isn’t helping yourself or helping the
God Power to help you. When an
architect draws a blueprint of a house, if
he makes some mistakes in calculation
or design, they will show up in the
finished building because the builder
will faithfully and unquestioningly
follow the blueprint. The architect is
supposed to know his business. If the
construction turns out to be wrong or
weak, the architect is the one who must
bear the responsibility.
You are supposed to know what you
want in life. If your feelings get mixed
up, through fear or worry, if you are
indecisive, lacking in confidence or
faith, judgment or experience, you won’t
be able to picture yourself doing or
being or having the right things in your
future and, as a consequence, your
“power of TNT” within will be given
the wrong blueprints to work on.
Get this point clearly in mind: You
supply the material (by the nature of your
thoughts) out of which your creative
power builds your future. If the material
is inferior, comprised of mental pictures
of failure, despair, defeat and the like,
you can readily see that only unhappy
results can be materialized from them.
If you are anticipating the worst while
hoping for the best, you will get the
worst. The things that happen to you are
in direct accordance with the things
wherein you place your faith. Believe
you are licked—and you are. Your belief
instructs the Power Within to produce
failure.
Trouble is the product of wrong thinking.
Straighten out your thinking and your
troubles must vanish. They cannot
continue to exist because they have been
created and kept alive by wrong thinking
—and a change of mental attitude always
brings about a change of conditions and
experiences.
You cannot think love and hate at the
same time—either one or the other must
dominate. So it is with every
constructive or destructive feeling.
There is a continuous battle going on in
our consciousness for the ascendancy of
good and bad feelings. As creatures of
free will and free choice, it is up to us to
develop and maintain emotional control.
It is our job to conquer our fears and
worries, our likes and dislikes, and to
direct our desires into right channels.
Once we do this, we begin to get right
results in every department of our lives;
things commence to happen as they
should happen; success becomes a
regular pattern, in place of failure.
The admonition: “Don’t trouble trouble
’til trouble troubles you,” is a good one.
Because you have had an unfortunate
experience is no indication that this
experience need be repeated in your
future—unless you start brooding about
it, fearing its repetition, even inviting it
by a continued picture of a like
occurrence.
Your feelings are dynamite. They have
the power to make or break you. Take
inventory of your feelings this very
minute— about others, about your
problems, your future. Are you worried,
apprehensive, resentful, fearful, when
you should be relaxed, self-confident, in
good spirits, filled with courage and
faith?
Whatever conditions you are facing at
the moment are the result of your past
thinking—good and bad. These
conditions cannot change until you have
first changed your thinking.
Do you wish to attract more trouble?
You can easily do it! Just persist in
maintaining a wrong mental attitude
toward someone or some experience.
That’s all you need to do, and you’ll see
how quickly and positively this power
within will serve you—in reverse.
Remember—you are the architect and
this “power of TNT” is the builder. It
operates like a magnet, attracting to you
what you picture.
Things first happen in your mind before
they can happen in this outer world.
What are you picturing? Do you want it
to happen? If not, you are the only one
who can prevent it. Your future success
or failure is in your hands—where it
should be.
Don’t ever say again: “You might know
this would happen to me!” Say instead:
“I know only Good is going to happen to
me— because my thinking is right.”
The greatest and most intricate
electronic computer ever built will
never approach the capability of your
mind.

YOUR SOURCE OF
POWER
by NAPOLEON HILL
Of all the great men I have known,
Thomas A. Edison intrigued me most.
Perhaps this was due to the fact that
despite his lack of formal education, he
became the foremost man of achievement
in the field of the sciences.
 I was intrigued also because of the
mental attitude in which Mr. Edison
related himself to his affliction of
deafness. When I asked him if he had not
found his work very difficult because of
his deafness, he replied: “To the
contrary, deafness has been a great help
to me. It has saved me from having to
listen to a lot of worthless chatter from
men who did not know what they were
talking about, and it has taught me to
hear from within.”
The latter part of that statement is
very significant, especially to the person
who is seeking the way to peace of mind
through understanding of self. By
transmuting his affliction into a positive
mental attitude, Mr. Edison learned how
to tune in on Infinite Intelligence and get
his knowledge from an infallible source.
Thomas A. Edison was far and away
the calmest man I have ever known. He
had no frustration complexes. He had no
fears. He had no regrets about anything
or anyone. He had no grandiose ideas of
his own importance, but he did have
humility of the heart, which made him
truly great.
His understanding of the benefits of
closing the door behind disappointing
experiences was profoundly reflected in
the fact that before he perfected the
incandescent electric light, he met with
more than ten thousand separate and
distinct failures. Think of a mind which
is capable of setting a goal, and then
letting nothing turn it aside until that goal
is reached, and you have a perfect
picture of the quality which made Mr.
Edison great.
Once I asked Mr. Edison, “What
would you have done if you had not
finally uncovered the secret of the
incandescent electric lamp?”
With a merry twinkle in his eyes he
replied: “I would be in my laboratory
working now, instead of wasting my time
talking with you.”
Mr. Edison knew no such reality as
“failure” because he had discovered the
supreme secret which leads to peace of
mind and understanding of the source
and power of the mind. Without the aid
of that supreme secret, Mr. Edison never
would have become the world’s number
one inventor.
Because of his knowledge of the
supreme secret, Thomas A. Edison
carried on through more than ten
thousand definite failures in his search
for the solution of a problem. I wonder
how many people know the number of
failures the average man can survive
without quitting and giving up the ghost
in despair. To satisfy my curiosity on this
subject I once made a survey through
which I examined men and women to
ascertain their staying qualities in the
face of failure or defeat.
The majority of them quit trying
when overtaken one time by defeat. A
very small percentage of them kept on
trying a second time. But by far the
greater number quit even before meeting
with defeat because they expected it and
quit before they really started.
Needless to suggest, there were no
Edisons and no Fords in this group.
They were the average run-of-the-mill of
humanity who somehow never got
around to recognizing the master key to
riches with which they were endowed at
birth: a master key consisting of their
ability to tune in and appropriate the
power of Infinite Intelligence by the
simple process of conditioning their
minds to receive and use this great
universal power.
I have observed two important facts
concerning men who are successful in
their chosen occupations and those who
are not. The successes speak in the
future tense of yet unattained objectives
which they intend to achieve. The
failures speak in the past tense, of their
defeats and their disappointments. I have
never known the rule to fail.
I have observed another trait concerning
successes and failures. The successful
man usually speaks in complimentary
terms of other men who are succeeding,
while the failure usually has a word of
criticism of the men who are succeeding.
Envy and revenge are very ugly words.
More ugly still is the character of the
person who indulges in these emotions.
They represent emotions against which
the doors of one’s mind must be tightly
closed if one is to enjoy peace of mind.
The source of Mahatma Gandhi’s
influence over more than a hundred
million of his followers was a great
mystery to many people. They could not
understand how a man who had no
money, no military equipment, no
organized soldiers could defy the
powerful British Government and so
successfully get away with it.
What was the source of Gandhi’s
power? He simply mobilized the mind-
power of more than a hundred million
people, who fixed their minds upon the
major objective of routing the British
and freeing India. Time turned this
purpose into action which forced the
British to withdraw. Remember,
organized mindpower is greater than
organized military power.
Note, however, this important feature of
the Gandhi mindpower. He freed his
mind of all desire for revenge, all
hatred, all desire for personal
aggrandizement. He sought no robes of
honor for himself; nor did he seek any
form of material riches. All he sought
was the privilege of mobilizing the
mind-power of the Indian people for the
purpose of gaining their freedom from
British rule.
There is something profound about the
powers of a man who moves under this
type of impersonal motive. There is
something truly great about the man who
seeks freedom and benefits for others,
while he seeks nothing for himself but
the privilege of serving. Perhaps his
“something,” whatever it is, was
responsible for the success of George
Washington’s armies when they were
fighting against great odds, for the
independence of this nation.
Close the doors of your mind to
everything which caused you anxiety,
fear, envy, greed and the desire of
something for nothing. The penalty for
failure to close the doors will be loss of
the peace of mind which you are
seeking.
Through no fault of your own, you lost
your job. There are two moves you can
make. First, you can nurse your wounded
feeling until they fester into resentment
and hatred of your former employer. In
that frame of mind you will find it
extremely difficult to get another job, no
matter how skilled in your occupation
you may be. No employer wants a
person with a negative mind around any
place of business. He has a bad effect on
the customers and other employees.
Secondly, you can transmute your
temporary frustration into a determined
will to get a better job than the one you
lost, close the door on your old job and
start right where you stand to find just
the job you desire. If you speak of your
former employer at all, be sure to speak
of him in complimentary terms. That may
not help him any, but it will do you a lot
of good.
You have been injured, perhaps unjustly,
by someone who works with you in your
occupation. Here you are face to face
with an opportunity to learn whether or
not you have within you the makings of
bigness. If you are potentially a great
person, you will forgive and close the
door behind you on the incident.
If you have not the foundation for
greatness, you will find ways and means
of striking back at the person who
injured you, and possibly go so far as to
cause that person to lose his job. In that
event you will be the more unfortunate
person of the two, for truly any person
who expresses any form of revenge is
unfortunate. Revenge is like a
boomerang. It often comes back to
wound the person who sets it into motion
against another.
You have held your present position for
a long while without getting the
promotions to which you believe you are
entitled. There are two things you can do
about it. First, you can open wide the
doors to your mind so that Old Man
Grudge can enter and make you grouchy.
In that event, you may never get the
promotions you desire, but you will be
almost sure to “get the gate” sooner or
later.
Secondly, you can start right where you
stand and apply the habit of going the
extra mile by rendering more service
and better service than you are now
being paid for, and doing it in a pleasing
mental attitude. By this method, and this
method alone, you can make yourself so
valuable that your employer cannot
afford to keep you in your present job,
but he will voluntarily move you up into
another station. If he is so lacking in
imagination as not to recognize your
better type of service, then someone else
may recognize it and your reward may
come from an entirely different source.
When it comes to the entertainment of
anger or hurt feelings, remember they,
also, are to be put behind that closed
door. It is most important for you to
know that no one may make you angry or
hurt your feelings in any manner
whatsoever, without your willing
cooperation.
Your state of mind is something you can
control completely. And you may be
surprised to learn, after you become
better acquainted with this “door
closing” idea, how easily you can take
possession of your mind and condition it
for the attainment of any purpose you
desire.
No one can control the actions of others,
or many of the circumstances of life
which tend to make one angry, but
anyone may control his reactions to these
actions and circumstances. Your mind is
your own. You are the sole supervisor of
its reactions to every circumstance
which affects your life. Learn to close
the door of your mind and shut out the
negative reactions if you wish to find
peace of mind and lasting prosperity.
He frightened the stagehands when he
called for . . .

THE “BIG ME”

by MARJORIE SPILLER NEAGLE
The story is told that on opening
night, before the great Enrico Caruso
became famous, he was overcome by
stage fright. As he stood in the wings, his
throat contracted with a spasm of terror.
Sweat poured from him. He was on the
verge of running away.
Suddenly a thought struck him.
“The little me on the outside is
strangling the big me on the inside. The
me that wants to sing . . . that can sing . .
. must come out.”
He began a whispered shout. “Get out of
the way! Get out! Get out!”
The stagehands looked at him frightened
and other members of the cast wondered
if Caruso had taken leave of his senses.
By the time the cue came for the singer
to make his entrance, the “little me” had
been routed and the “big me” was in
command.
After Caruso finished his aria the
audience rose to its feet, cheering and
shouting, “Bravo!”
A powerful force had been put into the
person of Caruso. Only when he
recognized that a weak force was
holding it back and acted upon that
knowledge, did the stronger one come
through.
7 HEALTH
UNLIMITED
He who has health has hope;
and he who has hope, has
everything. –Arabian
Proverb
If tension and worry are weapons
you are using to commit slow suicide,
this advice is for you.

HOW TO LIVE LONGER

by FRANK ROSE
“The most common cause of death
today is suicide.” This startling
statement was made to me recently by a
doctor friend while I was interviewing
him for a health magazine.
“But, Doc,” I protested, “the suicide
rate isn’t that high. I have some figures
on it right here.” I started groping
through my briefcase. He waved his
hand impatiently.
“I know the statistics. I’m not talking
about official suicide with guns and
other lethal instruments. Most people
choose a slower method. But it’s just as
fatal in the long run. I’m talking about
worry, pessimism and fear. They’re the
greatest killers of our time!”
 After this revealing interview, I
spent several weeks researching the
subject. I read dozens of books,
pamphlets and magazine articles. I
talked with a score of physicians,
psychologists and clergymen. All agreed
that the hectic tempo of modern living
with its resultant tension is a serious
national problem. All voiced the opinion
that millions of Americans are slowly
killing themselves with the deadly
weapon of anxiety.
As one doctor put it, “Ailments
caused by negative thinking account for
more sickness than all other diseases
combined. Such sickness is not
imaginary, as many suppose. It is just as
real as a broken leg and usually far more
serious.”
“What is the answer?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Get
people to stop worrying. Get them to
relax. But don’t ask me how. I don’t
know.” He stared out of the office
window for several moments with a
troubled expression on his face.
“Nowadays,” he continued, “people
always seem to be expecting the worst
and that’s what they usually get. They
fail to realize that most of their
afflictions are self-created, that negative
thoughts always produce negative
results. They’ve lost their confidence—
or faith, or whatever you want to call it
—that things will go well and this vital
lack is shortcircuiting their health and
their ability to cope adequately with
life’s problems.”
A clergyman expanded this point.
“Faith is the answer, all right, but not the
vague, passive attitude that usually
passes by that name. Real faith is not
hope or desire; it is the optimism that
comes from inside. It is, above all, a
creative force. It makes good things
happen.
“Too many people today associate
faith with purely religious activities.
They don’t bring its dynamic power into
their workaday lives and, without it, they
are ill equipped to ward off the swarms
of troubles that beset us all these days.
Worry stems from fear, and fear is an
outright admission of lack of faith. A
round-the-clock working faith is the only
armor against worry and fear.”
All of the persons interviewed
agreed that a working faith of some kind
was the solution to our growing health
problem, and that the public needs to be
educated to the fact that our health and
happiness depend upon our mental
attitude.
But how can our thoughts make us
sick? To many people this is
incomprehensible. They think of their
minds and emotions as something apart
and totally different from their bodies.
This is not true, as research and
discoveries in the field of
psychosomatic medicine have clearly
proven. The mind and body are
interrelated. What affects one affects the
other.
William James, the noted
psychologist, defined an emotion as “the
state of mind that manifests itself by a
perceptible change in the body.” It is
easy to verify the truth of this statement
from your own experience. Remember
the last time that you became angry?
Were you affected only in your mind, or
did your face flush, your eyes widen and
your muscles tighten and tremble?
Think back to a time of fear. Do you
recall the creeping sensation at the back
of your neck, the lump in your throat, the
tight knot in your stomach, your pounding
heart? Have you ever fainted at the sight
of blood? Or been sick to your stomach
because of disgust? All of us are
familiar with the splitting headache and
varied pains that invariable accompany
worry and tension.
None of these effects is imaginary.
They are caused by the tightening of
muscles and the squeezing of nerves and
blood vessels in reaction to emotions. If
such a state of mind is prolonged—and
with many persons it is continual—it can
lead to sickness as serious as any caused
by germs.
Doctors warn us that becoming angry
or upset can cause the coronary arteries
of our heart to squeeze tightly. In time,
this can produce a heart attack that is just
as fatal as one brought on by physical
causes. In fact, the former are much more
common than the latter. Likewise, an
ulcer resulting from anxiety is just as
real and painful as one brought on by the
wrong diet. These are just two examples
of the many hundreds of illnesses which
people bring upon themselves by their
mental attitudes.
According to Dr. John A. Schindler,
author and former Chief Physician of the
Monroe Wisconsin Clinic, “The human
body is heir to a thousand different
ailments and one of them appears to be
as common as all other 999 put together.
It formerly was known as psychosomatic
illness. And it is not a disease in which
the patient merely thinks he is sick.”
What is the solution to this mounting
toll of misery and ill health? The
American Medical Association tells us
that we must learn to control our
thoughts and to think right. It lists eight
excellent rules for us to follow:
“1. Quit looking for a knock in your
motor. 2. Learn to like your work. 3.
Have at least one hobby. 4. Learn to like
people. 5. Learn to be satisfied when
you can’t easily change your situation. 6.
Learn to accept adversity. 7. School
yourself to learn to say the cheerful,
helpful and humorous thing. 8. Learn to
face your challenge and your problems
with confidence and decision.”
This is helpful advice as far as it
goes, but it overlooks the most important
remedy of all: faith—faith that all will
be well, faith that faith will make it so.
A vast number of people today are
facing life without the buoyant support of
this dynamic force. Many of them have a
kind of faith, all right, but it is something
they keep hidden in a holy niche of their
consciousness, taking it out for Sundays
and special religious occasions and then
putting it carefully away again. They
seem to feel that faith belongs solely to
the spiritual realm and has no connection
with the material world of everyday
living. They fail to weave its golden
strands into the fabric of their daily life
and thus are helpless to handle the
constant difficulties they meet.
They worry about their health,
finances, homes, jobs, taxes, old age,
atomic warfare, the weather, their
neighbors. Their minds throng with a
thousand flitting images of half-formed
worries, doubts and apprehensions.
Nothing is too insignificant or farfetched
for them to fret about. In fact, a good
many persons spend most of their
waking hours brooding about something
or other. All of this unnecessary tension,
this suicidal morbidity, adds up to just
one thing: fear—fear of what the future
will bring. And this in turn, boils down
to the fact that faith is not operating in
their lives as it should.
In order for anyone to acquire the
faith that will keep him well, it is first
necessary for him to realize that it is not
a lot of mystical nonsense but is an
established scientific fact. It is the heart
and core of psychosomatic medicine. It
is just as real as electricity.
You do not have to accept it on
someone else’s say-so; you can
experience its truth and effectiveness in
your own life any time you desire. Just
shove worry and fear to one side and
learn to relax. Take each day as it comes
and do not fret about tomorrow. This
does not mean that you should not plan
for the future, but only that you should
never worry about it. There is a big
difference. Planning is healthy and
constructive. It is the positive approach
to life. Worry is unhealthy and
destructive. It is the negative approach.
If there is the slightest doubt in your
mind as to your present thinking habits, it
will repay you to examine them carefully
and honestly. You may discover that you
have been killing yourself on the
installment plan. If such be the case, do
not worry. Just make up your mind to
face the present with courage and the
future with optimism and let faith handle
the rest.
If you can’t go to sleep when counting
sheep, here are some other suggestions
to help you woo Morpheus.

HOW ABOUT YOUR

INSOMNIA?
by JACK MEYER
If someone in your vicinity says, “I
slept like a baby last night,” do you feel
from the bottom of your insomnia like
taking a poke at him to erase that well-
rested look from his face? Would you
also like to have it understood that there
is grave doubt in your mind that he is
telling the truth?
Perhaps you suspect that you look
similar to the bleary-eyed gargoyle you
thought you saw leering at your bedroom
window in the early-morning fog.
What’s more, you just can’t find a good
excuse to kick around and blame your
insomnia on. You could kick something
else, like the hassock or highboy, but that
would be painful and hence defeat your
purpose.
Oh sure, you’ve had insomnia
before. You never came right out and
gave it a name, because you hoped it
wouldn’t happen again. Now that it is
happening more and more often, you
can’t avoid giving it its legitimate name.
Since insomniacs aren’t an organized
lot who elect officers, conduct meetings
or engage in campaigns, they can’t come
to any sweeping conclusions to eliminate
their problems. Anyone on his own is
bound to be victimized by those
resourceful worrydemons that heckle
and harass you beyond the point of no
return—or so it seems. Once you relax,
your guard is down and you have to start
coping with your sleeplessness. That is,
unless you are just too tired to stay
awake at this point—a refreshing
alternative that automatically robs you of
your insomniac standing.
Sleep is a necessity recognized the
world over. The average American goes
to bed in the evening. The time of
evening varies according to occupation,
social habits and whether you watch the
late-late TV show. If you are of the
rigid-routine rank, you possibly check
the thermostat, lock the doors, put out the
cat, brush your teeth and do any number
of tedium-producing chores before
bedding down on your inner-spring.
Variations on this theme are many. But
whatever the ritual, eventually we all
fall into the same class—would-be
sleepers.
Here is a familiar picture. Stretched
out prone or supine or curled into a
crescent, you punch your pillow,
bunching it into the right shape or
comfortable hollow. A few wriggles and
squirms and you’re off. That is, you
thought you were off. That curtain
flapping in the window is no dream, and
“oh my aching back,” how about shifting
to the other side of the bed which has
fewer rocks in the mattress?
A few adjustments later, you try
again. Now you assume more fantastic
positions, like the pretzel, the
corkscrew, the sheepdog or the Hindu,
all of which feel fine for a few minutes.
How about that old trick of closing the
eyes and grunting like a contented water
buffalo?
 “We must not take chances on
postponing this matter. . . .” Whoops!
How did that old speech get in here?
Speculations, reviews, previews and
just plain worthless niggling ideas keep
building up. Problems and doubts are
racing around in your fully awakened
brain like greyhounds chasing a rabbit
around a giant racetrack.
It could, and does, go on indefinitely.
You give the pillow another sharp blow.
Count sheep—that’s it! Uncle Bill used
to say that did the trick for him, but then
he was a sheep rancher, and counting
them must have given him a sense of
security. Counting “one, two, three, four”
is murderously dull and ought to put
anyone to sleep. “one thousand one, one
thousand two . . .” counting out loud,
much louder than you thought, not only
keeps you awake but wakes up the rest
of the household as well.
When all is quiet and righteous
indignation has simmered down, you say
to yourself, “Nice try,” and scrap sheep
counting. Now the thought flashes onto a
mystic screen, “Recite poetry.” Some
rhythmic lines float to the surface, but
you can’t get enough of them together to
make sense. You haven’t recited poetry
since you were in the eighth grade. You
sit up, swaying back and forth in tempo
with “Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty . . .” an empty what!
You cudgel your brain and, by that time,
sleep seems two million light-years
away.
Worry is certainly a sleep robber,
especially for those who are fingernail
chewers or thumb-twiddlers to boot. If
the worries stem from the weight of
decisions that must be made in business
or personal life, it would be best to face
them as squarely as possible or consult a
trustworthy person qualified to help you
find the answer. One can’t wish
problems away, but you can lighten them
by putting them in their proper
prospective.
My doctor set me straight on several
facts about insomnia. “It’s quite
common,” he said, deflating me.
“Everyone should evolve his own
dependable system to resolve the
problem.” I mumbled something about
trying to help, but the doctor seemed lost
in thought. In fact, he looked sleepy.
“There aren’t any snap cures,” he
yawned.
This all sounds neat and pat in the
doctor’s office, but I bet him dominoes
to dictionaries that it wouldn’t last until I
got within a foot of my bed that night.
After considerable reading, probing and
experimenting, I compiled ten points for
my friend, the doctor, to sanction. He
said, “It looks to me as if the sleeping-
pill trade will decline when this gets
out.”
I hesitate labeling these rules, for the
connotation has a tendency to rouse us
into taking a firm stand to carry them out.
This won’t woo any sleep.
Assuming, then, that you have a
place to sleep and that your rent is paid
up, here are some ideas that do not call
for undue cunning or wily tricks:
1. Bedtime should not be worry time
or planning time for tomorrow. Mental
activity of this kind is not conducive to
relaxation.
2. Your bed should be comfortable, not
too soft or too hard. Use subdued colors
in the bedroom and, if possible, do not
use the room for other activities such as
sewing, desk work or watching TV.
3. Do not be overly concerned or fretful
about getting your eight hours of sleep.
People vary in their requirements and
you may not need that much.
4. Almost everyone has a “getting-ready-
for-bed” routine. These preparations, by
their very monotony, bring on
somnolence. If you must read in bed,
better choose something fairly dull so
that the drowsy atmosphere created does
not dissipate.
5. Don’t fret if you don’t go to sleep
right away. Quiet rest without loss of
consciousness is beneficial, too. Shut out
noises and light. This is particularly true
of unusual sounds such as a dripping
faucet, a flapping curtain or thumping
blinds.
6. When hunger gnaws, don’t resist that
snack which will settle the demon.
Crackers and milk may sound unexciting,
but will fill that hollow which may have
grown to proportions of the Grand
Canyon while you were wasting your
time fighting it.
7. Smoking and caffeinic drinks,
especially if used excessively, may be
too stimulating for some. Others, whose
systems have adjusted to these
stimulants, will snooze away
unperturbed.
8. Certain positions are more restful than
others. Lying on the side is
recommended for adults with a pillow of
the right thickness to alleviate shoulder
or neck muscle strain. Don’t get the idea,
however, that if you go to sleep on your
side you will wake up in the same
position. It can happen, but you may just
have ended up there after changing
positions about forty times during the
night.
9. Stretching and yawning help you to let
down. Try a nightly “I don’t care”
attitude. In fact, sprawling and stretching
and then reversing the stretch to what I
call a “slumping-in-a-heap” feeling
makes you feel like drifting off. 10. Your
digestion, possible allergies, attitudes
and general health play a part in your
quest for rest. If you are an insomniac of
long standing, losing night after night of
sleep, you may not be a subject for self-
help. Consult your physician for
remedial treatment of possible
underlying causes. You can kid about
insomnia just so far, then you’ve had it.
If
 it is of any help to know that many
famous people at one time or another
belonged to the ranks of insomniacs,
cherish the thought. As for me, I’m too
slee-eepy!
Tears are the safety valve that could help
you add years to your life.

MEN, IT’S OKAY TO CRY!

by RALPH E. PROUTY
One of the most emotion-packed
moments in sports history came on July
4, 1939, when the New York Yankees
held a “Lou Gehrig Day” at Yankee
Stadium. Seldom has there been such a
spontaneous outpouring of feeling for an
athlete. The recipient of it all, the “Iron
Horse,” had reached the end of the trail.
Actually Gehrig was a dying man, though
none of his teammates or fans suspected
it.
As the compliments and praises
were showered upon him by such
dignitaries as Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia
and Postmaster General James A.
Farley, Lou gulped and fought back the
tears. But when Manager Joe McCarthy
presented him with a silver trophy from
his Yankee teammates, the big athlete
broke down and cried.
Other athletes have shed tears in
public, and with less provocation. Not
many baseball players would cry upon
learning that they had been sold to the
Yankees. One who did was a Cardinal
outfielder, Enos Slaughter. After sixteen
years with St. Louis, Slaughter was
unexpectedly sold to the Yanks. Enos
was so shocked at the idea that the Cards
would let him go after such long and
faithful service that his only outlet was
in tears.
Basketball star Bob Cousy shed a
few tears at a celebration in his honor at
the Boston Garden. At thirty-four, Cousy
was retiring after thirteen years with the
Boston Celtics to start a coaching career.
The accolade, including a telegram from
President John F. Kennedy, was more
than the cage star could take. His feeling
overflowed through his eyes.
Athletes aren’t the only grown men
known to cry as an involuntary
expression of emotion. Shortly after V-E
Day, a colonel in the United States Army
was driving through Germany in his
small staff car. He passed lines of
ragged, tired German soldiers, just
released from prison camps, now
trudging hundreds of miles back to their
homes and families.
“Strange,” said the colonel later,
“last week I hated their guts. Now I
suddenly saw them as human beings
hurrying back home to become husbands,
rear children and till the soil. Before I
realized it, I found that I was crying.”
Our culture has taught us for
thousands of years that crying is
unmanly. Only women weep. Men—
especially strong men— suffer in
silence. King Lear, Shakespeare’s tragic
hero, after being dispossessed by his
two daughters, suffers the greatest
heartbreak of his life. But will he weep?
He will not. He says:
“Let not woman’s weapons, water
drops,
Stain my man’s cheeks!”
In other cultures it is quite
permissible for man to shed tears in
public. Among the Maoris of New
Zealand it is as common and accepted a
thing for the warriors to weep as it is for
the women. Eskimo men also weep
without losing status in the eyes of the
community.
It is not uncommon in Latin countries
to see men shed tears in public. Perhaps
the French, Italians and Spanish are
simply more emotional by nature than the
rest of us. There is also the possibility
that their men realize the value of a good
cry now and then.
Scientists have been telling us for the
past few years that crying may actually
be good for us on occasion. In a recent
address to the American Chemical
Society, Dr. James O. Bond,
distinguished epidemiologist, said that
modern man might add years to his life if
he would break down and weep once in
a while or else find a male equivalent
for tears.
“Weeping,” said Dr. Bond, “has both
a protective and a tonic effect—
protective in that it guards the organism
against the damaging effects of shock,
tonic in that it serves to restore the
organism to a state of stability.”
When we undergo a severe
emotional experience, tension builds up
within the body. The body demands
some way to release this tension. Crying
is nature’s way of providing that
emotional release. When we refuse to
shed tears, the whole body takes the
brunt of the emotional discharge. This
may upset delicate glandular balances,
cause chemical changes in the body,
raise hob with your nerves and actually
make your body ill.
Noting that American men have been
taught that “only sissies cry,” Dr. Bond
cites the case of the Eskimo man, who is
free to weep without the finger of scorn
being pointed at him. The doctor notes,
at the same time, that psychosomatic
disorders are practically unknown
among Eskimo men.
Any connection? A good many
scientists are beginning to think so. Dr.
Walter Alvarez of the Mayo Clinic bears
out what Dr. Bond has already said:
“Deep emotion that has no vent in tears
makes the other organs weep.”
Special studies made by the United
States Army indicate that men will resort
to many reactions before they allow
themselves to shed tears. They will grit
their teeth, clench their fists, vomit, even
faint. But, being red-blooded American
boys, they won’t cry. That’s for softies.
 Suppose you saw a picture of a man
in public life—a man you respected
highly—shedding tears. Would you lose
your respect for him? Haven’t you
yourself ever been in a situation where
you felt yourself close to tears?
Stand in front of the faded original of
our Declaration of Independence in
Washington. Look up at the brooding
statue of our Civil War President inside
the Lincoln Memorial. Lay your hand on
the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. Walk
across Concord Bridge and stand beside
the Minute Man. Find yourself blinking
to keep the tears back? The associations
brought to mind by these objects arouse
a flood of emotions that simply demands
an outlet. The easiest by far is tears.
 Tears aren’t always triggered by
sorrow, sympathy, grief or a train of
thought. Sometimes sheer beauty is
enough to bring on an outburst. The late
Charles Laughton was once at Chapel
Hill to give a program of readings at the
University of North Carolina. Walking
through the university gardens that
afternoon, he came upon a bank of
massed daffodils and narcissuses. The
sight was so movingly beautiful that
Laughton burst into tears.
History records famous men who
wept in public. Alexander the Great
wept because there were no more
worlds for him to conquer. Scipio spoke
of “the gracious gift of tears.” Abraham
Lincoln was proud of his ability to weep
for relief and in sympathy, and what
Bible reader does not know that Jesus
wept.
In our own time, too, outstanding
men shed tears in public. Generalissimo
Chiang Kai-shek wept at the funeral of
one of his generals. General George
Patton, after his victory in Europe, wept
at a testimonial dinner tendered him in
Boston. Even rugged John L. Lewis shed
tears as he took his United Mine
Workers Union out of the C.I.O.
When TV great Arthur Godfrey fired
his star singer, Julius LaRosa, both men
shed tears while discussing the affair
with reporters. Godfrey wept on another
occasion—when he described over
coast-to-coast radio the funeral of
President Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Godfrey was frankly crying as he spoke.
No one in America thought less of him.
Only a few years ago, when General
Dean was liberated from a North Korean
prisoner-of-war camp, he washed away
the humiliation and suffering of those
years with unrestrained, unashamed
tears. Perhaps the greatest humanitarian
of our century, Dr. Albert Schweitzer,
was known to weep in public.
So next time you feel close to tears,
let ’em come. You’ll be better off for it.
After all, why be a tough guy with a
mixed-up inside when it’s just as easy to
be a little less tough with a welladjusted
inside?
Know what happens when you tie
down the safety valve on a steam
engine? The whole thing may blow up.
So don’t tie down the safety valve on
your emotions. Shed a tear if the
occasion demands. You may actually be
helping yourself live a longer, a happier
and a better-adjusted life!
The next time you reach for a
cocktail, stop and ask yourself if there
isn’t a sign before you that reads . . .

DANGER! ALCOHOLISM
AHEAD
by LILA LENNON
Yes—You can become an alcoholic.
In fact, if you have already stepped over
the thin line that separates the regular
social drinker from the alcohol-
dependent drinker, you may be in danger
of taking the next, very short step
towards becoming a victim of that
incurable disease known as alcoholism.
It can happen to anyone—rich or
poor, educated or illiterate, young or old
—the more than five million alcoholics
in the U.S. come from all levels of
society and economic status, from all
occupations.
It is estimated that about 71 per cent
of the population drinks, and that one out
of fifteen people will end up as an
alcoholic. That one person is, or will
become, an alcohol-dependent drinker.
Usually, he is not even aware that his
drinking has reached this dangerous,
pre-alcoholic stage and does not suspect
that for him disaster is just around the
next corner.
What causes that one person out of
fifteen to step into the abyss of
excessive, repetitive and uncontrolled
drinking? Prevailing scientific opinion is
that a combination of physical,
psychological and environmental factors
are involved, and that alcoholism is in
the man—or woman—not in the bottle.
Unfortunately, most people are likely
to resent being told they’re “drinking too
much” and, in addition, they also
develop a kind of protective amnesia
about how often and how much they
drink. Even those who consider
themselves just “social drinkers”
frequently remain unaware of increased
consumption, but the answer is easily
obtainable—simply by marking every
drink, each day, on a calendar pad for a
month. The total may prove to be
shocking—and sobering.
For a majority, social drinking
creates no problems and does not disrupt
their lives in any way; it is the alcohol-
dependent drinker who is most likely to
acquire the serious, complex disease of
alcoholism, and it is a grim fact that 10
per cent of the adult population are
alcohol-dependent drinkers.
How can you tell how far or how
fast you’re traveling along the downhill
road to alcohol dependency? Your
answer to the following questions will
help you spot signs that spell Danger!
How long have you been drinking?
How much do you drink?
How often?
When?
Why?
Has the amount and frequency of your
drinking increased? Do you feel you
cannot have a good time without a drink
—
that it’s a “must”for all social
encounters, including golf, fishing, card
playing, etc.”
Has the “martini luncheon” become a
daily fact of life as a means of selling
either your products or services?
Do you anticipate having a drink
immediately after work?
Do you make a point of stopping at a bar
or heading for the bar car on the train
before going home?
Do you have a definite tendency to drink
on “signal”—before luncheon, dinner or
bedtime to celebrate something or for
other “special” reasons?
Do you drink every day, for one or more
of the following reasons—to erase
fatigue, to alleviate boredom, frustration,
anxiety or discouragement?
If your answers give you an uneasy
feeling that it’s time to turn off that
downhill road, you can take the
following “detours”:
Keep an accurate, truthful record of the
number of drinks you take.
Never take a drink every day.
Don’t drink on an empty stomach.
If you feel you “need” a drink—don’t
take it. Substitute walking, for instance,
(and for miles, if necessary) for the
drink.
Space your drinks. Don’t take (or as a
guest accept) the second drink for a half
hour after you’ve finished the first.
Allow an hour before taking the third,
and don’t take the fourth.
Dilute the amount of alcohol by sticking
to long, weak drinks.
Break the habit of drinking “on
signal”—substitute hot strong tea or
bouillon before meals, warm cocoa or
other caffeine-free beverages before
bed.
When you feel especially tired or tense,
substitute the hottub-soak and cold-
shower routine for a drink.
Never, never drink in the morning to
“overcome” a hangover. In addition, a
frank discussion with your doctor or
clergyman, or both, can be helpful in
learning how to find other detours that
lead away from the road to alcohol
dependency.
The alcohol-dependent drinker is
already on the downhill road that can,
and will for some, lead to the dead-end
street of broken dreams, hopes and lives.
But the danger signs are there, if you
will slow down, read them . . . and heed
them!
Since three minutes of anger will sap
your strength quicker than eight hours of
work . . .

CAN YOU AFFORD YOUR

TEMPER?
by DUANE VALENTRY
Bill Hamilton’s job never looked so
good as it did the day he walked out the
door for the last time. He had one
consolation. “Well, I finally told that guy
off!”
But this was small comfort. Nor did
it stack up well against the necessity of
telling the wife she’d have to cut corners
until he came up with something.
Bill’s temper had cost him another
job, his chances of becoming sales
manager and his peace of mind. He
decided this last blowup had been a lot
more expensive than it was worth.
Can you afford your temper? Temper
can be the most expensive thing in your
life. Ask Bill Hamilton, or the man
eating his heart out with remorse in jail
because in a fit of rage he broke his
crying child’s arm. Ask the woman who
flares up and loses friends faster than
she can make them.
Many unhappy marriages result from
the uncontrolled temper of a marriage
partner. One man didn’t like the way his
wife cooked dinner and threw it at her:
another raged because his wife spent too
much on clothes and ripped everything in
her closet.
Childish? Unreasoning? Temper
usually is. Even when justified, it’s
costly to the indulger, according to
doctors, psychiatrists and temper-
indulgers themselves.
“What I need is to belong to a
‘Tempers Anonymous,’ an organization
like the one drinkers have,” says a man
with a cocked-trigger temper.
A bad temper is a burden to the one
possessing it and to those around him.
Like the drinker, he is often a fine person
otherwise, intelligent and affectionate,
which is why temper has been called the
“vice of the virtuous.”
Again, like the drinker, he suffers
remorse and self-condemnation, often to
an agonizing degree. He swears to
reform, never to let himself go again
and, like the drinker, he doesn’t until
next time.
The bad-tempered man apologized
for his actions to those he has offended
and tries to make up to friends for things
he has said and done. Often, because
they’re friends, they forgive him. But
temper has broken many friendships.
Probably more importantly, he can’t
forgive himself. Each letting-go takes
something from him and adds a sickness
of soul which is part of the high price of
temper. But it is costly to health, too.
“Three minutes of anger will sap
your strength quicker than eight hours of
work,” says the Reverend Charles W.
Shedd, who has counseled many
burdened with this problem. “Why?
Because it has put a terrific strain on
your body. When you are angry, your
blood rushes to the major muscles of
arms and legs. Thus you have greater
physical strength, but your brain, lacking
its full blood supply, is cut down in
efficiency. This is why you say things
you do not mean and do things which
seem outlandish.”
This is similar to “euphoria,” which
causes one under the influence of
alcohol to do things he will look back on
with regret.
Doctors know many of the body’s
ills come from attitudes of anger, hate
and resentment, and that many a sick man
or woman recovers by the simple
process of substituting patience for
impatience, calmness for anger, and love
for hate.
Few psychiatrists today tell troubled
patients to blow their tops if they feel
like it. Such temporary release, they
have found, lacks the curative power of
replacing hate with love.
“Why keep giving in to a bad habit?”
asks Dr. Walter Alvarez, formerly of the
Mayo Clinic, in his syndicated medical
column. “That only helps it to fasten
itself upon you. Fight the habit every
day, and eventually you will be free of
it, and hence so much nicer a person.”
Thousands know the terrible cost of
temper to peace of mind. “I’ll regret to
my dying day the mean things I said to
my Dad in an argument—I never had a
chance to say I was sorry, he went so
quickly,” young Fred Nelson commented
sadly at his father’s funeral.
Anger costs the co-operation and
good opinions of others, as well as their
affection and regard. Like alcoholism it
needs to be faced to be cured.
“We had personnel trouble in our
office and lost valuable work time
through turnover,” relates a once-
choleric boss. “Nobody would take my
fits of anger very long. I had to get
myself in hand—home life has become
happier, too.”
Temper robs a woman of beauty and
a man of dignity. Helen of Troy could not
look beautiful in a rage as actress Ava
Gardner proved recently when she threw
champagne at photographers.
“It is no sin to have a temper, only to
go on having it and prayer has helped
many to bring a bad temper under
control,” recommends the Reverend
Charles W. Shedd. “The best way to lose
your temper is to lose yourself in God.”
Physical action also helps. Breaking
something or running around the block
works off adrenaline in the system, with
no cost involved.
“Every time you get into an argument
you have a small chance of boosting
your ego and softening the opposition
and a big chance of losing a friend and
hardening an artery,” says Mary Martin,
Broadway star, who goes out of her way
to avoid a discordant situation.
Self-analysis helps. If temper fits
follow a pattern they can be forestalled.
Anger may come with fatigue, a let-
down or with worry; and half the battle
is won if such tendencies are
recognized.
John Hudson got in a bad temper at
the end of the day when he had to buck
traffic and “all those fool drivers.” Then
he tried calming his thoughts, to think of
the other drivers as men like himself,
going home. Trying earnestly to “get
close to God,” before long Hudson was
enjoying the trip home and was heard to
remark to his wife that traffic had
changed a lot. It hadn’t; he had.
 Henry Drummond’s famous essay,
The Greatest Thing in the World,” which
has helped many overcome tempers,
warns that the Bible “again and again
returns to condemn it (anger) as one of
the most destructive elements in human
nature.
“No form of vice, not worldliness,
not greed of gold, not drunkenness
itself,” said Drummond, “does more to
unChristianize society than evil temper.
For embittering life; for breaking up
communities; for destroying the most
sacred relationships; for devastating
homes; for withering up men and
women; for taking the bloom of
childhood; in short, for sheer gratuitous
misery-producing power, this influence
stands alone.”
The price of temper is so high, who can
afford it?
8
OPPORTUNITY
UNLIMITED
A wise man will make more
opportunities than he finds.
–Francis Bacon
He was a pioneer in his field and his
writings became . . .

A MIRACLE OF POSITIVE
THINKING
by WILLIAM L. ROPER
“Since 1892, I’ve had nothing to do, do
…do … do …”
While thousands of idle discouraged
Americans chanted this ditty of
defeatism during the devastating panic of
1893-98—a time of riots, hunger
marches and threats of revolution—one
American was busy working on a
“success” book that was to bring new
hope to millions and play an important
role in restoring prosperity to America.
His name was Orison Swett Marden.
The book, the first of more than forty he
devoted to the theme of winning
personal success by positive thinking
and self-discipline, was Pushing to the
Front.
 Early in life, Marden, an orphan at
seven, had read Dr. Samuel Smile’s
book Self-Help, and decided there must
be a formula for achievement. Later, in
seeking the reasons why some men
achieve greatness and wealth despite all
kinds of obstacles he interviewed
Thomas A. Edison, John D. Rockefeller,
Andrew Carnegie, Alexander Graham
Bell and other successful men.
Marden’s research convinced him
that there were certain basic rules for
accomplishment: self confidence;
positive, creative thinking; hard work;
concentrated effort; singleness of
purpose and clean living. Other men
before Marden had discovered these
virtues, but he was one of the first to
formulate them into a pattern for
successful living.
Today the value of these rules for
mental discipline is widely recognized.
And they are just as useful now as they
were then. By applying them, young
persons today have a definite advantage
over those who think one must have a
barrel of luck or a magic pull to win.
Marden’s own life demonstrated the
truth of his success philosophy.
One night in 1892, just as the great
Depression was getting under way,
Marden’s Midway Hotel in Kearney,
Nebraska, burned to the ground. With it
was burned the manuscript of his
“success” book, Pushing to the Front.
The loss was a severe blow to his
dwindling fortune, acquired by careful
saving and prudent investment. But what
grieved him far more was the destruction
of his manuscript.
What would he do now? Even before the
embers stopped smoking, Marden made
up his mind.
Renting a barren room over a livery
stable, Marden started to work,
rewriting his book. That winter he lived
on $1.50 a week. He was sustained by
his enormous self-confidence and faith
in his idea, although the clouds of the
coming Depression grew darker.
For years he had studied and analyzed
the techniques used by so-called self-
made men in attaining success. He was
convinced others could use the same
methods effectively. That was the
purpose of his book—to show young
men and women how to make their
dreams come true. Its theme, stated
simply, was: “He can who thinks he
can.”
Marden was deeply in debt when spring
came. Manfully, he struggled to complete
the book. Meanwhile, the soup lines in
the big cities grew longer, and panic
mounted.
When Marden offered his “success”
book to publishers, they rejected it.
Some countered: “How can people buy
books when they can’t buy bread?”
Marden realized now that all of the rules
he had formulated for overcoming
obstacles and achieving success were
faced with a decisive test. One of the
chapters in his book was about “Grit”
and the courage to carry on despite
difficulties. Marden had those qualities.
He recalled Mirabeau’s classic phrase:
“Nothing is impossible to the man who
can will.”
And Marden himself had written: “The
strong-willed, intelligent, persistent man
will find or make a way where, in the
nature of things, a way can be found or
made.”
So packing a suitcase with his few
possessions, including the manuscript of
his precious book, he left Kearney for
Chicago in 1893.
There he found temporary employment
as manager of the Park Gate Hotel
during the World’s Columbian
Exposition. When off duty, he visited
local publishers, trying to persuade one
to publish his book. None would risk it.
A few days after the Fair closed,
Marden journeyed to Boston where he
had friends. It was there he had received
his B.A. degree from Boston University
in 1877 and an M.D. from Harvard in
1882.
But business conditions in Boston
weren’t much better than in Chicago.
That was the spring that Jacob S. Coxey
led his army of twenty thousand
unemployed, half-starved men in a
march on Washington. Pessimism
reigned. America was in the doldrums.
Businessmen hesitated to try new
ventures. Hoarding was common.
How could America be saved and
business rejuvenated? A few political
leaders advocated a foreign war. Others
proposed doles.
Then, in 1894, a miracle happened.
Marden, with the aid of friends who
were impressed by the merit of his idea
and his own unshaken faith in it, got his
book published. The first edition of
Pushing to the Front sold out quickly. A
second went equally fast. In spite of hard
times, people were finding money to buy
the book.
For panic-sick America, the volume’s
courageous, optimistic philosophy was
just what the doctor ordered. It gave the
discouraged new hope, new faith in
themselves. Undoubtedly, it helped to
change the mental outlook of thousands,
and so became a turning point in the
nation’s economy.
Eventually, the book went through 250
editions and was translated into many
foreign languages. In Japan and several
other foreign countries, it was used
extensively in the public schools. Queen
Victoria wrote a letter commending it.
Marden followed Pushing to the Front
with other books based on the same
general theme: Rising in the World
(1896), Every Man a King (1906), The
Optimistic Life (1907), He Can Who
Thinks He Can (1908), Everybody
Ahead (1917), Ambition and Success
(1919) and Masterful Personality
(1921). In 1911, he brought out a new
and enlarged edition of Pushing to the
Front. It continued to be a best seller.
Thirty of his books were translated into
German and more than three million of
them were sold in twenty-five languages.
There is an inspiration in Marden’s life
as well as in the books he wrote. Born
near Thornton, New Hampshire, in
1850, he became self-supporting at an
early age. While attending Boston
University and later at Harvard, he
waited on tables and developed a
catering business to pay his way. He had
saved nearly $20,000 before completing
college. With this nest egg, he bought an
old tourist hotel on Block Island, off
Newport, Rhode Island, and by
intelligent promotion developed his
holdings until he owned controlling
interests in five hotels, including the
Midland in Kearney. With the
Depression, his hotel business collapsed
and he was near bankruptcy when the
Midland burned that night in 1892.
In addition to writing books, Marden
was publishing a successful national
magazine when he died on March 10,
1924.
By his own yardstick, he was a success.
In Rising in the World, he had written:
“The greatest thing a man can do in this
world is to make the most possible out
of the stuff that has been given him. This
is success, and there is no other.”
Marden made the most of what he had,
using one theme as the basis for forty
books. And in a period of tight money,
his first book had become a best seller.
Even more importantly he helped to
inspire a nation at a time when the
gospel of positive, courageous thinking
was desperately needed.
Stop and think! Isn’t it time for you to . .
.

GET OFF THE

TREADMILL!
by W. CLEMENT STONE
Centuries ago in China there was a
great drought. Rice then, as it is now
was the staple food of the Chinese. It
was also a medium of exchange. It was
money. The rice fields were dying with
thirst. Without rain to water them, there
would be famine, sickness, even death
for the people.
A young farmer whose name has long
been forgotten was sitting on a river
bank. This young man was the father of
three children—all with beautiful brown
eyes. He was the husband of a woman
who shared all he had, including labor in
the field. He had just returned from the
village shrine where he had prayed for
hours—for rain.
As he sat on the ledge looking at the
water of the winding river, the stories
told to him by his grandfather kept
bothering him—stories of the great
drought of another generation. Hundreds
of thousands of people died because of
famine. This young man wanted his wife
and children to live. He, too, wanted to
live.
What could he do? With the flash of
inspiration that comes from a burning
desire—or could it have been an answer
to his prayers?—he had a vision.
This young Chinese had a treadmill
that was propelled by an ox. When the
animal walked, he was forced to move
in a circle as the outside of the wheel
turned. In his mind’s eye, the farmer
pictured two large wheels supported by
an axle in a horizontal position. Boards
were firmly attached as steps between
these two wheels. A series of buckets
hung on the outside of one wheel. These
buckets would scoop up water from the
river as the treadmill, in turning, rose
from its lowest point. They would dump
the water into a trough that would carry
it to the rice field as the wheel revolved
downward from its highest position.
He was unable to visualize his ox
treading such a contraption. “I would do
the work of an ox to save my family,” he
thought. Then he got into action! He
called together a group of farmers, all of
whom were faced with the same
problem. He explained his plan.
Together they made treadmills that
brought the water from the river to the
rice fields above. Since that time, there
hasn’t been a famine because of lack of
rain.
Centuries ago, the treadmill was an
invention of great benefit. But what
about today? Men or women in many
parts of the world are still doing the
work of an animal on the same type of
treadmill invented by a young Chinese
farmer who was a benefactor to his
people. Hour after hour—day after day
—step by step—they tread.
To the traveler, this sight is
interesting, strange and picturesque. Yet
in this modern machine age, such
wearisome, endless toil seems needless.
Perhaps you are on a treadmill—not
one that raises water from a river to the
rice fields above, but one just as
wearisome, just as needless and far
more frustrating. You might say to the
wife of the Chinese farmer: “Get off the
treadmill!” Yet in his wisdom, the
Chinese farmer might respond: “Why
don’t you get off your treadmill?”
Perhaps you and the Chinese farmer
would find it just as easy or just as hard.
Why? You would need to take time to
stop and think. You may need to develop
self-motivation. You may need to
develop a burning desire. With these,
you could find the way.
Just like the young Chinese farmer
whose name has long been forgotten, you
too can . . . get off the treadmill!
Miracles begin to happen when you
change your I Can’t philosophy to I Can.
A HOME FOR TEN CENTS
by BEN SWEETLAND
John Doyce was forty-five years old.
He was a house painter, married, the
father of two children. He was working
in my living room when he paused,
turned to me and said, “You don’t know
how lucky you are. I’d give anything to
have a home of my own.”
“Why don’t you?” I asked.
John looked at me with an
expression which clearly indicated his
surprise that I should ask such a
seemingly nonsensical question. Laying
his brush down and leaning against his
ladder, he spent fully five minutes telling
me why he did not own a home. I was
reminded of the cost of bringing up two
children; how hard youngsters are on
their clothes; the inevitability of bills for
the doctor and medicine; the high and
rising cost of living. He considered
himself lucky and a good manager to
come out even at the end of the month,
let alone purchase a home.
Having felt I was properly put in my
place, John picked up his brush and
continued the rhythmic swing right and
left as he brought freshness to the walls.
While my painter friend continued
his occupation of surface transformation,
I picked up an empty candy box and,
with the aid of adhesive tape, bound the
cover so that it could not be removed
and with my pocket knife carved a neat
slot in the top of the box, giving it the
appearance of a small savings bank.
Then, with my ball-point pen, I lettered
neatly on the side of the box: “Building
Fund.”
Noon arrived, and after John Doyce
had squatted on the floor with his lunch
box between his legs, I approached him
with a question quite provocative. “Let
me have a coin—any coin,” I
commanded. Reaching down in his
pocket he produced an array of small
change, pennies, a nickel or two, a dime,
etc. I reached over, picked up a ten-cent
piece from his hand and dropped it
through the slot in my improvised bank.
Almost with the ceremony of laying
a cornerstone, I presented the box to the
puzzled painter with the statement:
“John, with this important step you have
just taken, the home of your dreams is
now on its way.”
I didn’t give him a chance for
questioning, but for several minutes I
held the floor with a flow of logic he
could not dispute.
Saving is a habit—just as spending is a
habit. The one who acquires a habit of
saving will find it just as easy to adjust
his expenditures so that a portion of
every paycheck is saved, as the opposite
type will find it seemingly necessary to
spend every penny received.
John was told that every time he got any
money at all, he was to take some of it, if
only the tiniest portion, and put it in the
box. He did admit that he could do this,
but his attitude expressed his doubt that
such dribbles would ever amount to
anything of importance, especially a sum
which could figure in the purchase of a
house.
It would have been appropriate to revert
to the timeworn illustration, “Mighty
oaks from little acorns grow.” But I am
sure John, with his quizzical mind,
would have told me that he would not
want to wait the length of time normally
required to convert an acorn into a
mighty oak.
Houses are built by placing brick upon
brick or board upon board. They do not
come into being instantly, as if through
the wave of a magic wand. The
completed structure represents a myriad
of small operations. As in travel,
regardless of the distance, it must be
covered mile by mile.
In my busy life, counselling with people
constantly, both personally and via
television and radio, it is simple and
quite natural to lose touch with
individual cases. This was true so far as
John Doyce was concerned. He had
slipped my mind completely—until the
mailman handed me a neatly printed
invitation to a house-warming—and, to
my pleased amazement it was for the
new home of Mr. and Mrs. John Doyce.
It was a charming home, quite modern.
The large living room had its dining area
adjacent to a glamourous kitchen which
would arouse the envy of most
housewives. There was a master
bedroom and two of the most interesting
rooms for the children. The center of
activity for the house-warming was in
the rumpus room—or what is now
frequently referred to as the social hall.
It was a long time before I gained the
opportunity of congratulating this proud
home owner. He and his happy wife
were busily engaged in conducting tours
of inspection through the newly acquired
domicile.
Finally, literally grabbing John by the
arm, I sat him down at a table on the
terrace, and I relaxed as he unfolded a
story which proved highly inspirational,
even though it was based on
fundamentals I knew so well.
The most interesting part of John’s story
was not what you might expect, how
pennies grow into dollars, dollars into
tens, tens into hundreds and hundreds
into thousands.
“My greatest victory,” exclaimed Doyce
thoughtfully, “was learning that I Can
instead of I Can’t.”
He continued, “Up to the time I worked
in your home, I was definitely certain a
home was for the other fellow, not for
me. Living from pay-day to pay-day
without having a cent saved, your query
as to why I didn’t own a home came as a
paradox. We are not extravagant. We had
always felt we lived modestly so that to
save for a home, as I thought at that time,
would have meant a sacrifice too great
to impose upon my family.”
Determination to accomplish does not
always imply sacrifice. It calls into play
one’s resourcefulness to augment his
present income—thereby enabling him to
reach his objective. As this painter saw
his spare change growing into bankbook
figures, his enthusiasm mounted to such
an extent that he sought overtime work.
And since he had been able to live and
save on his regular income, he wisely
took the entire proceeds of his extra
work and added it to his now
established building fund. Of course,
such a move on his part caused his
savings curve to ascend abruptly.
The head of a family recently told me
that the very high price of steaks and
meat in general caused him to live on
less money. The family budget, being too
small to permit the luxury of fillets and
prime roasts, forced his wife to call
upon her ingenuity in preparing tasty
dishes from less expensive items of
food. Stews, with an abundance of
nourishing vegetables, were often found
on the menu. The less expensive fowl
supplied many tasty, satisfying meals.
Instead of too frequent pots of dollar-a-
pound coffee, the family found it was
helping the nervous system by using less
of the enchanting beverage.
The Doyce family followed this sound
pattern in meal planning, which added
more speed to the mounting building
fund. And as the rejoicing husband told
me, they were actually living better than
they had been before. This is
understandable when we realize that
merely tossing a steak into the broiler
takes much less mental effort than
planning a meal requiring combinations
of many ingredients.
Since this objective has been attained,
will the Doyce family revert to their
former living patterns? No sir-e-e!
Buying his home is merely the beginning.
They have started another building fund
—this one to enable them to acquire a
piece of income property, a house of two
or more rentable flats. “And that is not
all,” he added almost boastfully. “After I
get my income property, I’m going into
the painting contracting business for
myself and have others working for me,
instead of being dependent on others for
a job.”
“What’s this?” I asked as I was
preparing to leave the memorable
housewarming. I was looking at an
interesting plaque built into a niche in
the entrance hall. Inlaid in a polished
piece of walnut burl was a dime and
around it were engraved the words:
“The Foundation on Which This Home
Was Built.”
My thoughts went back to the workman
painting the walls in my home who so
solemnly said: “I’d give anything to own
a home of my own.”
When was the last time you tried to
punch a hole in the sky?

MAKE THE IMPOSSIBLE

YOUR GOAL!
by DR. HAROLD BLAKE WALKER
Test pilots, punching into the
stratosphere, climbing to undreamed
heights in jet and rocket planes, have a
phrase they use to describe their work.
They call it “punching holes in the
sky.”
That is what we were meant to do with
our lives, to climb beyond humdrum,
reach up beyond preoccupation with
gadgets and things, press on beyond “the
little aims that end with self.”
We aim too low. When it comes to
living, we are masters of the mediocre,
satisfied with good enough. After all, we
are human, we tell ourselves. We are
reasonably respectable, by the world’s
standards. Maybe we are a bit selfish
and more than a little stubborn, but so is
everybody else we know. Maybe we
have prejudices and jaundiced opinions,
but who doesn’t?
The ideals of the Divine adventure seem
quite impossible. The sky is too high to
think of punching holes in it. It is the
impossible that stops us. But nonetheless
it is the challenge of the impossible that
gets life out of its rut and onto a highway
that goes somewhere. It makes life
interesting and thoroughly worth living.
So a weary, weatherbeaten collection of
acrobats learned when their act was
falling flat. Bosley Crowther describes
how they tried to coax a little laughter
and applause from a vaudeville audience
with their stale routine. Then one of them
came down to the footlights and, in a
voice that betrayed grim despair,
announced to the audience: “We will
now do a trick that’s impossible.”
Thereupon his fellows leaped to
frightening perches, the audience woke
up, the top man clapped his hands with
bristling confidence . . . and out went the
lights. When the lights came on, the
smiling acrobats were posing proudly in
the center of the ring, the impossible
quite obviously accomplished. The
audience gave them a big hand.
The lights did not go out in the first
century when a strange collection of men
and women challenged the shoddy
standards of the Roman Empire in the
name of an “impossible” dream called
Christianity. Strange, too, how humanity
woke up when they got busy “punching
holes in the sky” and began to upset the
world.
To be sure, Rome was not built in a day,
and life becomes neither a spiritual
success nor a moral failure overnight.
Thomas a Kempis had it right when he
wrote: “If every year we would root out
one vice, we would soon become
perfect.”
That may be overoptimistic, but at least
there is a kernel of truth in it. And when
you get at the business of punching holes
in your little two-by-four sky, anything
can happen. The Wright brothers
managed to fly a hundred feet off the
ground, and that seemed like a miracle.
Then we thought the sky really had been
pierced when we got to five thousand
feet. Now we crash through sixty
thousand feet and know we have by no
means reached the limit.
Start with yourself as you are and root
out the worst in yourself. Maybe you
have a long way to climb, but you have
to start somewhere. Possibly you have a
stubborn streak that makes you a
problem at home, in the office or even in
your club. Start there and see what God
can do with your stubbornness. Get Him
into your thinking when you are standing
sternly for your own way and making
everybody miserable.
Don’t be disappointed if you can’t
overhaul yourself from top to bottom
overnight. There is more than a hint of
warning in the comment of an illiterate
farmer intent on learning to read and
write. After some study, he took his
pencil and began scribbling. Suddenly
he shouted to his wife: “Maria, come
here. I can write.” She looked at his
doodling and said: “Wonderful. What
does it say?” “One thing at a time,” he
said, “I haven’t learned how to read
yet.”
Start where you are, with the things in
you that sometimes make you hate
yourself. Take one thing at a time, and
put God’s strength beside your own
weakness. The only true failure lies in
failure to start.
At the very least, you can be better than
you are if you have the wit to reach
beyond your grasp and faith enough to
believe you can be what you ought to be.
9 SALES
UNLIMITED
Sales are contingent upon
the attitude of the salesman
—not the attitude of the
prospect. –W. Clement
Stone
It’s great to be a president of a
corporation (or an executive in a
responsible position) . . . if you can take
it. Perhaps you can. Perhaps you can’t.
But this article may help you crystallize
your thinking about yourself. It may
motivate you to higher achievement or
give you ideas for a healthier, happier
mental attitude toward your present
work, your present position and the jobs
you might like to hold in the future. For
many of the principles are applicable to
all those who hope to be, or are, in a
position of leadership.

REMINISCING . . . FROM
NEWSBOY TO
PRESIDENT
By W. CLEMENT STONE
At the age of six I sold newspapers at
31st and Cottage Grove in
 the city of Chicago. Today I am
president of Combined Insurance
Company of America, each of its
subsidiaries and several other
organizations. And there is a
relationship between the newsboy and
the president: experience, know-how
and sales activity knowledge.
The saying “a salesman is born . . .
not made” is a fallacy, as any successful
sales manager should know. And it is
also true: a successful president or
executive, teacher, lawyer, doctor,
inventor, scientist, philosopher, artist or
genius is not born . . . he, too, is made.
Self-made. And each is measured by the
results he obtains . . . his achievements.
For every normal person is endowed
with great mental capacities. Few use
and develop their natural abilities
sufficiently to reach the many goals they
could achieve. And this applies to all of
us. But we can develop our abilities
more fully in the future if we are
motivated to pay the price. We can begin
right now . . . to develop the want-to
(self-motivation), learn the know-how
(experience) and acquire the necessary
activity knowledge.
The price? Regular investment in
study, thinking and planning time,
followed through with action . . . work.
But with proper motivation, know-how,
activity knowledge and achievement,
work becomes fun. This I learned from
experience.
 As a newsboy I learned a lot that
helped me later as a salesman, sales
manager and executive, even though I
didn’t realize it at the time. I know now
that I began to learn then that if I couldn’t
solve a problem one way, I could
another. Thus that
first day when I tried to sell papers at
31st and Cottage Grove, a
then busy business intersection, the
newsboys who were older and bigger
than I beat me up to keep me from
interfering with their sales. That’s why I
walked into Hoelle’s Restaurant and
completely sold out my stock of papers.
This eventually led me to realize that
every disadvantage can be turned to an
advantage if one tries to solve his
problem.
Also as a newsboy I began to learn
how to overcome fear . . . through
action; the value of persistence when it
made sales; and how to sell by using a
method others were afraid to use:
coldcanvassing, that is, calling on
business people in business places
without an introduction. That’s the way I
sold insurance. And that’s the reason I
sold as many accident policies in a
single week as many insurance men sell
over a period of many months. Why?
As a newsboy I was motivated by
necessity. I had borrowed the money to
buy the papers. I had to sell them to
repay the loan and make a profit. Also as
a salesman, a sales manager and an
executive, necessity has become a
wholesome motivating factor in the
solution of problems. Many of the
principles I learned selling newspapers
between the ages of six and thirteen I
have been able to apply in my business
activities in adult life. Here are a few
examples, followed by statements of the
principles involved.
The success in selling newspapers in
Hoelle’s Restaurant on the first day was
repeated day after day. Also, in
developing a system for the sale of
accident and health insurance, I did that
which most insurance men didn’t do: at
the time of the renewal of a policy I did
not merely send a notice but I personally
called on each client to renew. Thus I
guaranteed the renewal, sold additional
protection when needed by my client and
increased my number of customers in his
place of business.
Determine the principles which
bring success and those which bring
failure. Employ the principles that bring
success, and avoid those which bring
failure.
At the age of twelve I entered a
hospital to try to sell my papers by
calling room to room. I reasoned that the
patients would make good prospects and
I could see a lot of persons in a short
space of time. Because I sold more
papers per hour of effort through this
experience than any other, I repeated it
daily. And in later years, as an insurance
salesman, I used exactly the same
principle in selling to employees, during
business hours, in the largest banks,
department stores, government buildings,
railway offices, hospitals and other
institutions in the United States.
Relate, assimilate and use principles
that are successful in one activity . . . in
related activities.
Sell in large institutions where . . .
others are afraid to sell.
Make greater profits in less selling time
by concentrating your efforts in an area
where there are a large number of
prospects, and thus eliminate waste in
travel time.
Go where the money is.
Where there is nothing to lose by trying,
and a great deal to gain if successful, by
all means try.
And I learned something else by selling
newspapers in the hospital. When I
started I thought the patients would be
there for several days, so I began to
make collections once a week. But I
soon found that many of my patients
didn’t stay an entire week. So I collected
daily. Also my profits increased because
of daily gratuities rather than weekly.
Perhaps collecting for the newspapers at
the time of delivery is one of the reasons
why I later, in selling insurance, made it
a practice to collect the premium at the
time of application.
Get your money at the time of sale.
At the age of seven or eight, I liked
movies, and I probably saw more
movies than any youngster I have ever
known. There
was a large movie house at 31st and
Prairie near the apartment
where we lived, and a smaller one
five blocks west of us. At the larger
theater the management, to get business,
gave each paying customer a white
ticket. The white ticket gave admission
to the balcony seats for the following
evening. So I would wait outside the
theater for the white ticket someone
might not want.
Now the smaller theater competed
by allowing children free if
accompanied by their parents. I went in
as a child of couples of all ages. As I
look back, I think the owner knew, for he
never said anything and didn’t allow any
of his employees to stop the practice.
As a salesman selling in large
establishments, I obtained permission to
sell from the owner by asking him for
permission. He had nothing to lose; his
employees and I had a lot to gain.
If a person has nothing to lose by
giving, and you have lots to gain by
asking, give him the opportunity to grant
you the favor that costs him nothing.
Now of course, I didn’t understand
these principles as a newsboy. And as a
salesman while I was searching to
develop a success formula, I didn’t
realize that I was using many of the same
principles I had employed in my first
business venture, selling newspapers.
Even when I established my own
insurance agency at the age of twenty,
and later trained salesmen to use those
techniques I had found successful in my
personal selling, I wasn’t aware of the
relationship. The discovery of the
connection between the principles used
in my early experiences and those I
subsequently had, became crystal clear
when I worked on the manuscript for my
book, The Success System That Never
Fails.
“President” is defined as the chief
officer of a corporation, society or the
like. A man in business for himself has
the same responsibility as the president
of a corporation.
 In a sense a foreman, department
head, superintendent, sales manager or
officer of a company has many of the
responsibilities of a president or the
owner of a business, even though the
area of responsibility is smaller. As an
individual, to be successful he must
employ the same basic principles that
are necessary for success in the job he
has; also in preparation for the
promotion he would like to achieve. And
this is true of a salesman, office
employee or laborer.
For every individual must start with
himself. He must be self-made.
Therefore it is desirable to motivate
ourselves to higher achievement and
continually to search for ideas that will
bring about a healthier, happier mental
attitude towards our present work, our
present position and those positions we
might like to hold in the future. The basic
principles are applicable to everyone.
And in the end our success will be
evaluated by results—our achievements.
10 SUCCESS
UNLIMITED
Success is achieved and
maintained by those who try
—and keep trying. –W.
Clement Stone
Can success be reduced to a
formula? Are there qualities and
principles that are always present in
truly successful individuals? Analyze
this article and those to follow and then
decide for yourself.
THE INGREDIENTS OF
SUCCESS
by LARSTON D. FARRAR
Some years ago, the late B. C.
Forbes, publisher of Forbes— Magazine
of Business put a team of business
reporters to work interviewing the men
who had been chosen, in nationwide
balloting among businessmen, as the fifty
foremost business leaders of that period.
The result was a popular book,
America’s Fifty Foremost Business
Leaders, published in 1948.
As one of the team, I interviewed some
of the most prominent men in American
life—the men at the top of the heap.
They included Walter C. Carpenter,
chairman of E.I. du Pont de Nemours &
Company, Ernest E. Norris, president of
the Southern Railway System, and Edgar
Queeny, chairman of Monsanto Chemical
Company.
At the “Fifty-Foremost” banquet in the
grand ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria
Hotel in New York, I had the honor of
meeting most of them personally. It was
an experience I shall never forget.
For a long time, I have been striving to
put my finger on the qualities these men
possessed in common. I wanted to
isolate, if possible, the factors that make
for success, so as to achieve it myself,
as well as pass the magic words on to
others who might be striving for the
heights.
One point early came to my mind. It is
that these men were lucky in one vital
respect—they had been able to exercise
their talents in a unique land, the United
States of America. Joel Barlow, an early
America, said in the seventeenth century:
“If ever virtue is to be rewarded, it will
be in America.”
I observed many traits in common among
the fifty foremost American businessmen
indicating they had attained “virtue.”
For one thing, I observed that they
invariably were men of humility.
It may seem odd, to some, that “big” men
should feel more humble than many
workers in the mills, mines and factories
the leaders control. Yet I was reminded
of what Jesus said when He pointed out
that if a man wants to be a master, he
first must become a servant. Jesus
washed the feet of His disciples to show
His own humility. Yet they accepted Him
as their master.
Every one of these men—even those
who were some of the founders and later
inherited stock ownership of an industry
— had served long years of
apprenticeship in the ranks of the
businesses they headed. Most of them
started out on the lowest rung. They had
learned, by experience, every phase of
the businesses they now were directing.
They had opportunity to study people on
every tier of society. Apparently the
“higher” they went, the more humble
they became. Perhaps their knowledge
made them realize more poignantly their
dependence on other individuals who
operate their vast companies.
“I am one of the least useful persons on
this railroad,” Ernest Norris, then
president of the Southern Railway
System, told me. “As far as the public is
concerned, this railroad is the conductor
who takes up the tickets and either
smiles or frowns while he does it. If a
piece of freight is crushed through
carelessness, it might inconvenience a
customer, so the most menial loader on a
freight platform is more important, to the
customer, than I am at any particular
time. At all times, I am dependent on
every man who works on this railroad—
from the vice-president, who may
transmit my order to the porter who may
ruin a man’s trunk through careless
handling. The higher you go in business,
the more you realize your own
dependence on other human beings.”
A part of the innate humility of these men
was the recognition that they did not
“know it all.” Another thread which I
observed running through the lives of
every one of them was a sincere search
for knowledge. I was amazed to learn
that one of the men I interviewed was
taking an evening course in sociology.
Cautioning me not to mention it, he told
me he had always wanted to learn more
about the subject, but that through the
years he had been so busy he hadn’t had
time for it. Now one of the most
successful men in the country, he still
was studying and learning.
And why not? Hadn’t he—and had not
all the others— achieved their goals by
learning that the joy is in the doing? Men
who win prizes realize, after they have
the cups sitting on the mantel, that the
greatest thrills came to them not while
they were collecting the prizes, but when
they were playing the game, running the
race or doing their jobs. It seems to me
that these men all had learned, in varying
degrees, that the joy of life is in the
doing of things that prepared them to do
bigger things on a different level.
Another quality that seemed to run like a
strand through all the fifty leaders was
patience. They had learned, I could tell
in the little things they did, not to be
impatient either with themselves or with
others. They realized that delays,
difficulties, mishaps and circumstances
are a part and parcel of life in this or any
civilization.
On one occasion, while I was
interviewing Edgar Queeny, chairman of
Monsanto Chemical, he buzzed for his
secretary. She apparently had gone out
on an errand, for there was no answer.
Because he wanted to get some
information from the files for me, he
excused himself, smiling. When he
returned with the file in his hand, he
explained, still smiling:
“The situation is rather hectic around
here today. We’re having a special
surprise party later for one of the
officials. He’s going to take charge of
one of our plants. I imagine that
preparations were too much for my
personal staff today.”
He wasn’t at all perturbed because no
one answered his buzz, although
normally several attachés listen for it.
My questioning of associates and
coworkers among the fifty foremost
business leaders indicated to me that
these men were noted among
subordinates for their patience and
goodwill.
There’s an old Arabian proverb: “All
things come to him who waits.”
Apparently it was taken to heart by these
men who had worked toward the
pinnacle in their various industries.
Perhaps the quality that stood out most
about each of these men was the
determination they exhibited in their
lives. They knew what they wanted to
do, and they were steadfast in their
determination to do it regardless of
sicknesses, impediments, “general
conditions” or the discouragement of
others. All of these men were optimists,
in the sense that they felt they could do
what they had set their hearts on doing,
in spite of roadblocks that might
discourage or deter others.
Ernest E. Norris, as a boy in Illinois,
wanted to be a telegraph operator. But
jobs were scarce back then. He hung
around a telegraph office and learned the
Morse code by watching the operator.
One day, he read about the death of an
operator in a town some distance away.
He immediately wrote for the job and
got it. Later he went to work for the
Southern Railway in a menial capacity.
Eventually, he became its president.
James H. Rand invented a visible index,
in which he had great faith. His father,
who was already in the office machine
business, didn’t think much of it. So
young Rand formed his own company, to
compete with his father whom not too
many years later, he was able to buy out.
Later he formed the giant Remington
Rand Company.
If asked to isolate the one quality that set
all these men apart from their less-
successful colleagues, I would have to
use one word—determination. Cato the
Elder used to rise regularly in the
Roman Senate to declare: “Carthage
must be destroyed.” Eventually, as we
know, Carthage was destroyed.
The lives of all the fifty foremost
convinced me that determination to get to
the top—to be successful in every good
way—was the prime reason they could
attain their goals. In fulfilling this
determination they had to exercise all
their skills and develop all their good
qualities, constantly sharpening these
through use and new knowledge.
The inflexible will to succeed enabled
them to do it.
EDDIE RICKENBACKER
— A LESSON IN POSITIVE
FAITH
by WILLIAM L. ROPER
“Opportunity is very much like a
radio signal—unless your receiver is
tuned to it you may never contact it.
Often it is not repeated. Today you must
be on the beam—ready to grasp your
chance.”
Captain Edward Vernon (Eddie)
Rickenbacker, famous aircombat ace of
World War I and now chairman of the
Board of Directors of Eastern Air Lines,
Incorporated, gives this advice to
America’s ambitious youngsters. But his
message is not for the young alone.
Political demagoguery, communism
and man’s passion to get something for
nothing, he warned, form a deadly
combination that threatens the future of
free enterprise.
“I have no time or patience for those
who come to this land of ours to take
advantage of our opportunities and then
to stab us in the back, nor do I have
patience for the fellow travelers,” he
said.
Declaring that freedom of
opportunity was the greatest freedom in
America, he said:
“Without that freedom, you would not
have the freedom to succeed. Too many
people today are looking for the fifth
freedom—freedom from work.
‘Security’ is the most overworked word
in the dictionary today.”
Certainly Eddie Rickenbacker never
asked for security. All he asked was a
chance. He never asked for a
paternalistic government to protect him
from the cradle to the grave. He was
willing to work for what he got, and to
fight for what he believed.
Therefore, it is logical that he should
become a symbol, an outstanding
champion of the American way of life,
his life an inspiration for the ambitious.
Born in Columbus, Ohio, on Oct. 8,
1890, the third of eight children, Eddie
got his first job when he was eleven.
The sudden death of his father had made
it necessary for him to leave school and
go to work to help support his widowed
mother and family. His first job was in a
glass factory: his salary, $3.50 a week.
Later he switched to a machine shop.
And when he was fourteen, he got a job
in Evan’s Garage in Columbus at $4.50 a
week, because he was fascinated by
automobiles.
In 1905 while working in the garage,
Eddie got the idea of supplementing his
meager schooling with a correspondence
home study course. His mother, always
wise and sympathetic, approved. Night
after night, Eddie studied earnestly by
the light of a kerosene lamp, his lessons
spread out on the kitchen table.
There, in those lessons, he found the key
to advancement. Coupled with his
natural mechanical ability, they equipped
him for his next big opportunity—a job
in the Frayer-Miller Automobile
Company of Columbus.
One spring day, Eddie walked into the
Frayer-Miller plant. For some time he
stood silently watching Lee Frayer, the
plant organizer and head mechanic.
Frayer was working on an automobile
ignition system. Finally he glanced up
and frowned. “Well, boy” he growled,
“what do you want?”
“Just thought I’d tell you I’m coming to
work here tomorrow morning,” Eddie
said, looking Frayer squarely in the eye.
Frayer straightened. He studied the tall
boy with a puzzled frown. “Oh, you are,
are you? Who hired you?”
Eddie smiled. “Nobody yet, but I’ll be
on the job here in the morning. If I’m not
worth anything, you can fire me.”
Frayer shrugged. He returned to his task
as the boy strode away.
The following morning Eddie reported
for work at the Frayer-Miller plant. He
had left a hurried note at Evans’s
Garage, saying “I’ve quit.” Frayer was
not at the plant when Eddie arrived, but
the boy did not wait for anyone to tell
him what to do. He noticed that the floor
of the machine shop was covered with a
thick layer of metal shavings and dirt.
Eddie got a broom and a shovel and
started cleaning the place. He had half of
the floor clean when Frayer arrived an
hour later. Frayer stopped in the
doorway and stared in surprise.
A keen-minded businessman, Frayer
realized that Eddie Rickenbacker was no
ordinary youngster. Here was a boy who
was seeking a career instead of just a
weekly pay envelope.
One lunch hour, Frayer observed the boy
deeply absorbed in a booklet of some
kind. He was curious.
“What you got there?” he inquired.
“A correspondence course lesson in
automotive engineering,” Eddie said.
“It’s all about carburetors.”
Frayer studied the booklet with interest
and asked the slender, brown-eyed boy
several questions about the course. A
week later he transferred Eddie to the
carburetor department.
When Eddie was seventeen, Frayer
selected him to become his assistant in
designing and building a new type
touring car. That was in 1907.
Other promotions came quickly, and it
was not long until Eddie was branch
manager of the Columbus Buggy
Company. In spite of his youth, he was
chosen to head a sales staff of six men.
To sell cars, he had to demonstrate them.
This led him into automobile racing, a
field in which he soon distinguished
himself.
When the 1913 racing season ended, he
had placed first or among the first four in
a dozen speed events. During the next
two years he won several races and
gained a national reputation as a racing
driver. His prize winnings for 1915
amounted to $24,000.
In the winter of 1916, Rickenbacker
wrote a book on automobile racing. He
called it The Book of Rules. The volume
disclosed that he was not the wild,
daredevil driver that the public believed
him to be, but careful and methodical.
When the United States declared war on
Germany in 1917, Rickenbacker,
although nearly twenty-seven, offered to
organize a group of American racing
drivers into a flying corps for the United
States Army, something like France’s
Lafayette Escadrille.
“You’re too old and you don’t have a
college education,” an official of the
United States Signal Corps explained in
turning down Rickenbacker’s offer.
Undaunted in his determination to serve
in France, Rickenbacker became a
chauffeur for the staff of General John J.
Pershing. He sailed for France with the
first contingent of the A.E.F. Upon
arriving in Paris, they were given a
wild, joyous reception. Like the other
Americans, Eddie was thrilled. But he
was not satisfied. He wanted to do
something more worthwhile than drive a
car, even for the General’s staff. He
wanted to take part in the air battles that
were becoming an increasingly
important factor in the war.
He was driving one of General
Pershing’s staff officers, Major Dodd,
over a muddy road near Verdun, when a
chance meeting brought him a step
nearer his dream. Stalled beside the
road was a big twin-six Packard. A
sergeant with an oil-grimed face was
working under the car’s raised hood.
Major Dodd ordered Rickenbacker to
see if he could help. One peek at the
grimy carburetor suggested the possible
trouble to Eddie’s trained eye. The
carburetor needed cleaning. Quickly he
set to work taking it apart and cleaning
the carburetor’s flow chamber which
had become clogged with water and dirt.
In a short time, he had the engine purring
smoothly.
Colonel William L. (Billy) Mitchell,
commander of the American air units in
France, who had been waiting while the
men worked on his car, flashed a
grateful smile at Rickenbacker.
“Say, Sergeant,” he said, “it’s lucky you
came along. You seem to know
something about automobile engines.”
Dodd grinned, “He should, Colonel.
That’s Eddie Rickenbacker, the famous
racing driver. I’m lucky to have him as
my driver.”
“You mean you were lucky,” replied
Mitchell. “Since I outrank you, Major,
I’m going to trade drivers with you right
now. From now on, Sergeant
Rickenbacker is going to be my driver.”
Rickenbacker was pleased with his new
chauffeuring assignment. Not only did it
mean seeing more action, but he liked
Colonel Mitchell and his new job
brought him in close association with the
air force commander. It gave him an
opportunity to plead his case.
But when he first told Mitchell of his
dream of becoming a fighting pilot, the
Colonel discouraged him.
“You’re over the age limit and you don’t
have the necessary education,” Mitchell
explained.
Several weeks passed before a burned-
out ball-bearing in the Colonel’s car
gave Rickenbacker a chance to prove
how resourceful and expert he was.
None of the French garages in Vendôme,
where they happened to be, had the kind
of bearing needed. So the ingenious
Rickenbacker borrowed some Babbitt
metal and a blowtorch, and made one.
That performance convinced Mitchell
that Rickenbacker was no ordinary
mechanic—and that he would make a
wonderful aviation engineer.
Soon afterwards, he selected
Rickenbacker to be an engineering
officer for a flying school being set up at
Issoudun to train American flyers.
Commissioned a second lieutenant in
August, 1917, the former racer was sent
to Tours for his first air training. Early in
1918, he was flying a combat plane at
the front.
Rickenbacker soon was the ace of the
American air arm. When the war ended
with the signing of the Armistice on
November 11, 1918, he had shot down
twenty-two German planes and four
observation balloons. From September
24 to the end of the war, he commanded
the 91st Pursuit Squadron.
Time after time, the Germans sent aloft
their most prized aces to get
Rickenbacker, but the American ace
returned, frequently with a bullet-riddled
plane.
Returning to the United States at the end
of the war, he was a national hero.
Rickenbacker founded the Rickenbacker
Car Company in 1921. After several
business adventures, some successful
and some not, he raised $3,500,000 in
1938 for the purchase of Eastern Air
Lines. Eventually he became president,
general manager and director of the
company.
During World War II he conducted
special missions to Iceland and England,
and did reconnaissance for the United
States in the South Pacific.
When Rickenbacker and a crew of U.S.
airmen, flying a government mission,
were forced down in the South Pacific in
October 1942, they drifted helplessly for
twenty-three days on a rubber raft.
Out there on the vast Pacific, blistered
by the tropical sun and near death from
hunger and thirst, one man became
delirious and slipped from the raft.
Others lay prone, almost resigned to
never seeing home again, as hungry
sharks snapped at them and the blazing
sun burned their flesh.
Eddie Rickenbacker bowed his head and
prayed.
Then a miracle happened! A seagull
came screeching down as from nowhere
and perched on Rickenbacker’s head.
Rickenbacker seized the bird and
twisted its neck. This bird became food
to revive the men on the raft.
Interviewed at her home in Beverly
Hills, while the world anxiously
awaited news of the missing men, Eddie
Rickenbacker’s mother said: “Eddie
will come back. He is the luckiest man
in the world.”
Yes, Eddie came back. Lucky he was,
but he had something in addition to luck.
He had courage, determination and a
will to live, along with an enormous
amount of self-reliance.
Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote an
essay on self-reliance, and Eddie
Rickenbacker has given the world a
living demonstration of it. Without a
positive self-faith, he could never have
become the American air ace of World
War I or accomplished the many other
amazing deeds of his career.
“Keep plugging and learning,” he
advised a group of boys. “Anyone who
has the desire and determination to forge
ahead cannot help but be successful.”
This is the kind of coaching America
needs, if we are to meet the challenge of
Karl Marx and the faceless robots who
march to his credo.
ART LINKLETTER—HIS
HAPPINESS IS
COMPLETE AT
CHRISTMAS
by ADINE TRAVIS LOUGH
Somehow, memories of our
childhood Christmases always remain
with us. Each year, in brief flashes of
memory, we recall scenes of happiness
—and sadness—that have been buried
from youth, in our subconscious mind.
Art Linkletter has many such
memories.
“We were very poor when I was a
child,” he says. “I suppose I was ten
years old before I discovered that not all
people got their Christmas dinners in
baskets. I worked as an errand boy,
swept out stores, picked fruit and sold it
door-to-door in order to rustle up a few
dollars to buy Christmas gifts for my
mother and Dad. But I like to think those
gifts were truly representative of the
spirit of Christmas. It wasn’t their cost
that mattered. They were earned by the
sweat of my brow and given with love
from my heart.”
Poverty wasn’t the only major obstacle
he hurdled in his youth. By accident, as a
youngster he discovered that Mary and
John Linkletter, the only parents he had
ever known, were not his real parents at
all. Born Gordon Arthur Kelly, he was
given up by his natural parents when he
was only a few weeks old. While never
denying that the discovery was a cruelly
painful one, Linkletter, as a youngster,
quite typically put it to work on his own
behalf. He immediately transcended the
material poverty of the Linkletter home
and dreamed of the day when his real
father, rich and handsome, would come
for him in a big car and drive off to his
real home—a mansion on the hill.
“I played this little game of make-
believe to see me through the patched
shirts and underwear I put on every
day,” Linkletter said. “I’m only grateful
that Father Linkletter, who gave me
everything he could, was not aware of
it.”
John Linkletter was fifty-one years old
when he and his wife Mary went to the
adoption agency in Moose Jaw,
Saskatchewan, for their new son. John’s
right leg had been amputated after a
boyhood accident, and he wore a
wooden leg and walked with a cane.
Later, he liked to be called the Reverend
John Linkletter, although he had never
been ordained. He had no church of his
own but he was an intensely religious
man and he took on Satan in no uncertain
terms. He was violently opposed to
movies, card-playing, and liquor.
“I remember when I was signed to
emcee a show sponsored by a wine
company back in 1939,” Art Linkletter
smiled. “I was afraid Father would
explode. Instead, he reminded me of a
verse in the Bible which says, ‘Drink no
longer water but use a little wine for thy
stomach’s sake and thine own
infirmities.’
“And then he added, ‘And whenever you
can, Artie, give the Lord a little plug.’”
Linkletter speaks of his foster parents
with great warmth and affection. Quite
obviously the solidity of his own
character was carved out of the
teachings of these two good people who
made him their son.
“But you learn all the way up,”
Linkletter continued. “I remember when
I was a newcomer to Hollywood and
was invited to join some truly big stars
in a Community Chest benefit show. The
theater in Beverly Hills held three
thousand seats and I was told it was a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a
young performer.
“At showtime only fourteen people had
appeared. I stood listlessly on stage and
decided the whole thing wasn’t worth
the effort. I got off as fast as I got on.
“Then Jack Benny went on stage for his
act. For 35 minutes he entertained these
fourteen people as if they were fourteen
thousand. I got the message that Benny
spelled out for me. As long as even one
person comes to see you perform, you
owe him the best you can give him. I
hope I’ve done that ever since.”
The millions of people who have tuned
into “House Party” on CBS for twenty
years and “People are Funny” over NBC
for twenty-one years are dedicated
testimonials to Linkletter and his
performance on the air.
“My wife Lois and I have received
hundreds of gifts from faithful friends all
over the country,” Linkletter said
gratefully. “We’ve had giant
watermelons from Texas and a barrel of
lobsters from Maine. The Los Angeles
zoo now houses a baby elephant that was
shipped to me from India, and Gene
Autry inherited a live bull another friend
sent me. We’ve had cookies and cakes
by the carload, argyle socks, turtles and
whale blubber. I’ve even had a dahlia
named after me.”
Linkletter’s genuine interest in people
draws audiences to him like a magnet.
When people talk to him, he really
listens— a trait conspicuously absent in
many people who live far less busy lives
than his own. His ability to put himself
in the other fellow’s shoes and to see
things from another person’s point of
view have been responsible in no small
part for his success. When you are liked,
it’s easy to like back. And Linkletter’s
empathy with the public has gone on for
a great many years.
He is a strong believer in family, and
happily spends every available free
moment with his own. Married for 26
years to Lois Foerster, he has five
children, and his grandchildren are a
neverfailing source of delight to him.
“Children are pretty remarkable
people,” he grins. “I think the reason
‘The Kids’ have been such a big hit on
‘House Party’ for so long is answerable
in one word—suspense! You never
know what they are going to say but you
may be sure it will be said in a
refreshingly honest sort of way.
“Besides, children are an adult’s link
with the long ago. Their unguarded
innocence can magically carry you back
through the years to your own childhood.
And their logic is hard to argue with.
“Take the boy who insisted he had been
outside playing ball with God. ‘That’s
ridiculous,’ his mother said. ‘How could
you possibly do that?’ ‘Well,’ said the
child, ‘I throw the ball up in the air and
God throws it back to me!’
“Or the young fellow who delivered this
sermon. ‘God invented the world and
food and spiders and houses and
everything.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ I asked.
‘What if we had no God?’ The child
looked at me for a moment and then
murmured, ‘We’d be in a mess.’
“Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt any of us to
play a little more ball with God or to
appreciate His existence,” Linkletter
smiled. “It might make ‘Peace on earth,
good will to men’ a daily rather than an
annual philosophy.”
This Christmas, as in the past, will be a
family day for the Linkletters, brightened
by the love and laughter of their
grandchildren.
But the true meaning of the day will still
permeate the family gathering.
“A few years ago we spend Christmas
Eve in the grotto of the Nativity in
Bethlehem. A fourteen-pointed silver
star glowed warmly over the spot where
Christ was born.
“Later, we watched while Christian
Arabs from Israel and Jordon clung to
each other in joyful reunion, while
hardened soldiers from the borders of
No-man’s land on both sides watched
with tears in their eyes.
“So to me,” Art Linkletter said,
“Christmas is a day of new birth and of
new hope for a future that can be lived in
love and peace.”

DAVID SARNOFF— HE
CHANGED YOUR LIFE
by PAUL MOLLOY
Were Horatio Alger alive today he
would begin one of his success stories
with every cliché in the book of self-
made men: The boy would be the
bewildered son of hopelessly poor
immigrants struggling on New York’s
steamy East Side. The father would die
young and the boy would sell
newspapers to support his widowed
mother. In time he would play a heroic
role in a catastrophe, probably a major
sea disaster. He would fight life’s fearful
odds—as one of Alger’s titles puts it—
and once they were conquered, the
President of the United States would call
on him for help.
Finally, he would wind up lording an
empire he once served as a humble
errand boy.
And that would be the story of David
Sarnoff—inventor, brigadier general,
industrial statesman, head of the
worldwide Radio Corporation of
America, first to foresee and develop
radio as home entertainment, founder of
the powerful National Broadcasting
Company, and crusader for color
television in every American home.
And, in the true Alger tradition, it all
started with a happy accident.
Sarnoff came to America at the age of
nine from an obscure mudflat in the
Russian province of Minsk.
Overwork sidelined his father, who was
a painter, and young David sold papers
on the streets until he saved enough to
establish a newsstand in the rough, tough
Hell’s Kitchen section of New York.
This wasn’t sufficient to support the
family (two younger brothers) so he sang
in a synagogue choir at night—until
puberty caught up with his soprano
voice. When David was fifteen, his
father died and David decided he would
need a regular income.
He had already started with newspapers,
so why not a newspaper career? David
struck out for the old New York Herald,
walked through the first door that looked
interesting, and snapped up a $5-a-week
messenger job.
The flustered boy hadn’t noticed the sign
on the door: Commercial Cable
Company.
Once in, he was promptly seduced by the
mystery and nervous music of the
telegraph key. His first savings went
toward a key and code book and, utterly
captivated by this new magic and its
potential, he devoted all of his spare
time to the practice of Morse code. His
interest and ambition were so genuine
that friendly operators on occasions
would give him a turn at the live key.
That was all Sarnoff needed. Off he
scurried to the Marconi Wireless
Company of America: Could they use an
assistant telegrapher? They couldn’t but
they needed an office boy at $5.50 a
week. Sarnoff grabbed it, not because of
the extra halfdollar a week, but because
he’d have a chance to see the celebrated
Guglielmo Marconi.
This was 1906. One day Marconi the
genius and the office boy Sarnoff would
together develop the power of the
electron and become bosom friends.
First, though, Sarnoff had achieved his
preliminary goal—to become a
telegrapher. More time and money went
into books and studies and, at seventeen,
he made it. He was assigned to a lonely
Marconi wireless station on Nantucket
Island. Salary: $70 a month, $40 of
which went to his mother. The station
was a decrepit place but it was well
stocked with technical books. Sarnoff all
but memorized them and as his
knowledge and thirst for knowledge
increased, he was promoted to
Marconi’s new station atop the
Wanamaker store in central Manhattan.
There, on the night of April 14, 1912, he
caught a fatal SOS from a ship far out at
sea. The message signed off: “SS
Titanic.”
For seventy-two hours Sarnoff stayed
with his key until he had reported the
name of the last survivor to a shocked
nation. The three-day marathon caught
the public imagination, wireless ceased
being a freak, won a new name (radio)
and was on its way.
So was Sarnoff.
It’s easy to say that Sarnoff happened to
be at the right place at the right time.
This is only partly true. Sarnoff had to
be ready and equipped to be at the right
place at the right time.
Five years later (1917) Sarnoff was
commercial manager of American
Marconi Company, astounded that his
superiors did not yet recognize that radio
could benefit and help the individual, in
the privacy of the home, with “a little
box and amplifying tubes.” The
commercial aspects were almost
incredible. He fired memos unceasingly,
outlining his plans and even accurately
predicting the number of sets that could
be sold in the formative years.
Nobody paid much attention at the time,
but World War I was to finally prove the
value of radio communications. After the
war, the U.S. government moved to
break the foreign control (mostly
British) of the Marconi firm, and the
result in 1919 was an allAmerican
company—RCA—formed with
American capital by U.S. industrialists.
Sarnoff handled much of the business
transaction (at the request of the Navy’s
assistant secretary, Franklin Delano
Roosevelt) and became its general
manager.
In 1930, at the age of thirty-nine, Sarnoff
became president of RCA.
Between 1919 and then, however,
Sarnoff had pushed for his dream. He
needled the company into investing
$2,000 in his “little box”; coaxed them
into believing in his dream of short
wave radio; argued that not only would
radio not kill the phonograph but that the
two would “live under one roof” (the
same cabinet); accurately forecast two-
way radio for cars and the walkie-talkie;
foresaw the use of electric sockets for
radio juice (eliminating storage
batteries) and, in 1927, described “a
radiocontrolled tank of the future,
without human pilotage, being driven
toward the enemy’s lines” (the guided
missile).
A prominent engineer of that day shook
his head and said: “Wireless never
caught up with Sarnoff.” Not long ago
Sarnoff offered his own explanation: “I
have learned from long experience to
have more faith in the scientist than he
has in himself.”
Much of his uncanny forethought is
history: As early as 1923 he warned of
chaos in the air without policing, and
recommended government regulation of
broadcasting channels. He correctly
estimated that radio services could be
paid for by the sales of sets and
advertising.
He was working with television in 1923
(“It will come to pass,” he said) and
later RCA was to pour $50 million into
TV research, reportedly the largest such
single investment. His theory: “Would
you rather be deaf or blind? Radio can
hear, it will remain blind until television
is a fact.”
Today, RCA is the world’s largest all-
electronic company and has been doing
one billion dollars worth of business
annually since 1955.
He and his company have been at the
government’s service in peace and in
war because, as he explains: “I shall
never be out of debt to America. Nothing
I have done would have been possible
except in the American climate of
freedom.”
What sort of man, in private life, is this
scientific genius?
Mrs. Sarnoff, a Parisian he married in
1917, says this of him: “He is convinced
absolutely that there is a Supreme Force
over the universe. The closer he has
come to the electron and the atom, the
more he has come to see that there is
order and beauty in the universe and a
force behind everything. He has seen the
world more clearly than other men may
have, perhaps, and is more aware how
miraculous it is.”
A wealthy man, Sarnoff abhors the
practice of tipping. Not because he likes
to hang onto money, but because it
embarrasses him that one human being
should give another small change for a
small service. He tips the proper people
annually.
Like many men, he tends to become
overweight but his wife keeps him in
check. He doesn’t care for sports but
once was talked into taking up horseback
riding in Central Park. In the morning he
would rise, peek out of the window and,
if it were raining, exclaim: “Thank
goodness, I don’t have to ride today!” To
handle his appetite, Mrs. Sarnoff always
keeps a box of candies in her purse for
him. Says she: “You see, even a genius
has the most charmingly childlike traits.”
Sarnoff likes to have a cigar and read the
morning papers without interruption, so
he and his wife have breakfast in
separate rooms. He loves gadgets and
enjoys relaxing in a barber’s chair—so
his wife has installed such a chair, with
the works, in their big New York home
as well as another one in their
Washington apartment.
Sarnoff detests interruptions because
they offend his sense of orderly thinking
and, when in the company of bores, he
gives a magnificent impression of being
an avid listener. Actually he has already
shifted mental gears and directed his
mind to technical things that interest and
challenge him. But he still gives the
appearance of courteous absorption.
Sarnoff has two mottoes. One is: Think
before you talk. This indicates that,
while he has rushed through life doing
many things while others plod along
contentedly, he cannot be rushed on
problems related to his work and
interest.
The other motto is: The soup never has
to be eaten as hot as it is served. This is
his answer when associates show alarm
or panic. But the reason behind his
startling success was perhaps best
illustrated late in 1951 when he
celebrated his forty-fifth year in radio.
He spoke of the fiftieth year
achievements of radio and electronics
and said they would be eclipsed within
the next decade. Then he added:
“Anything that the human mind can
conceive can be produced ultimately.”

BOB CUMMINGS—“LIVE
IN A DREAM
FULFILLED”
by ADINE TRAVIS LOUGH
Delivered at birth by his doctor
father, married by his minister mother,
and named in part after Orville Wright,
his father’s close friend, Charles
Clarence Robert Orville Cummings, Jr.,
could not do anything but aim for the
spotlight, it seems.
Bob Cumming’s philosophy for
success was generated by a father who
firmly believed that anyone could
accomplish anything he wanted if he
would live, think, talk, act, eat and sleep
as if his goal had already been achieved.
“Dad called it ‘living in a dream
fulfilled’ ” Bob smiled. “And that was
years before Rogers and Hammerstein
wrote ‘If you ain’t got a dream, how you
gonna make a dream come true?’
“I was subjected to Dad’s
philosophy meal after meal, day after
day, and year after year,” Cummings
continued. “It made for pretty humdrum
listening until one day, when I needed it
most, the meaning of what he was saying
exploded in my mind. It’s worked for me
in a variety of ways ever since.”
Certainly, Bob’s accomplishments
prove that he has had something big
going for him. Few men, even those
blessed with his talents, have sustained
such great success for so long a time in
such a variety of fields.
He is a commercial instrument pilot
and holds the first flight instructor’s
rating ever issued. During the war, he
turned out over seventy combat flyers.
Flying to him is not a sport, it is a way
of life and he does it professionally.
He played straight man to Milton Berle
in vaudeville and did literally hundreds
of radio shows in New York. He is a
graduate of the Ziegfeld follies and Earl
Carroll Vanities.
He has starred in over a hundred
movies. While he is perhaps best known
for his comedy roles, he has played
dramatic parts in such films as Dial ‘M’
for Murder, The Carpetbaggers and
Stagecoach with equal skill and facility.
In fact he received television’s highest
award for his dramatic role in Twelve
Angry Men.
He has been the star of four network
television series. In his Bob Cummings
Show, he not only financed the
production but also starred in all of the
episodes for over five years, contributed
to the writing of some, directed most,
played “Grandpa” in many and did all of
his own “Grandpa’s” flying. Quite a
career in itself for any individual.
But perhaps Bob Cummings’s
greatest achievement is his status as a
human being. His life revolves around
his wife Mary and his five youngsters—
Robert, Melinda, Patricia, Laurel Ann,
and Tony. Where Bob goes, they go.
Earlier this year, the whole family
accompanied him to England where he
made a movie called Promise Her
Anything. Recently, they flew with him
in his plane “The Wayward Stork” on his
try-out tour of a play. “When my family
is with me,” Bob smiles, “I don’t really
feel I’m away from home.” He loathes
the phoney and somehow manages to
stay the same whether he’s out with old
friends such as Art Linkletter, Conrad
Hilton, Henry Kaiser or talking to a fan.
“They’re all important to me.” Many
stars make this kind of statement. With
Bob, you know it’s true.
This doesn’t keep him from being
ridiculed by some for his interest in
proper diet and food supplements.
(“Though if I’d taken as many pills as
I’ve been accused of, I wouldn’t have
had time to do anything else in my entire
lifetime,” he says.) To understand this
side of him, it is necessary to go back to
his own “Life with Father.”
Charles Cummings, Sr., prepared
himself for the ministry, but he was
possessed by the idea that Man is what
he eats and thinks, and he became a
doctor, instead. He was convinced, even
before the turn of the century, that man’s
ideal diet should be balanced about 90
per cent in favor of a complete protein
diet. He considered the insufficiencies
of civilized man’s diet shocking, and set
about creating a way to replace and/or
supplement these deficiencies.
As Bob says, “I was reared on some
of the world’s screwiest tasting
concoctions. But, looking back, Dad’s
opinions on nutrition were the forerunner
of what is medically accepted as sound
today.”
Dr. Cummings, for all of his interest
in nutrition, did not forsake the ministry.
He married it. Bob’s mother was known
to the citizens of Joplin, Missouri as
Mrs. Reverend Doctor Cummings, an
ordained minister. In fact, when Bob
married Mary Elliot Daniels of Gaffney,
South Carolina, his mother performed
the ceremony.
To go back a bit, when Bob was
born, his father delivered him. “There
are those who put this admittedly thrifty
procedure down to my Scottish
ancestry,” Bob grins. “If so, they must
certainly have enjoyed the selection I
made for our first-born’s godfather. The
man who held Robert Richard in his
arms at the christening was no less than
Jack Benny!”
 His father’s friendship with Orville
Wright had strange beginnings. Dr.
Cummings was hurriedly summoned one
evening to the Southern Pacific depot
grounds in Joplin, where a small,
dilapidated circus tent was pitched.
Inside, Orville Wright was writhing with
ptomaine poisoning. Outside, he and his
brother Wilbur had roped off their
“crackpot invention” on display for the
people to see. The ropes were totally
unnecessary as no one ventured near.
Orville Wright was cured of his malady
in a matter of hours, but his friendship
with Bob’s father endured throughout
their lives.
Wright’s idealistic phrases,
“America will soon become a
grasshopper nation,” “Airplanes will
elevate civilization from the mud of
ignorance to the clean air of
knowledge,” and “Every town and farm
will one day own its own airdrome”
were laughed at by most but not by Dr.
Cummings. The one-hundred-acre
Joplin, Missouri, airdrome (donated by
one of the doctor’s patients, August
Schiffendecker) was dedicated the year
after Bob was born, and the three
Cummings attended the dedication. In
fact, Dr. Cummings presided and his
wife said an early day “sky-pilot”
prayer. On the same ground in 1927, Bob
soloed in a Travelair biplane designed
by Lloyd Stearman and Walter Beech.
That plane, affectionately known as “old
number one,” is the plane “Grandpa”
flew in The Bob Cummings Show.
Bob’s flying made him one of the
most unusual fund raisers in Hollywood.
“Winning” Cummings as a door prize
means that from 5 to 245 people per
charity event get free rides in Bob’s own
Piper Aztec twin-engined plane, with the
star himself piloting them.
Asked why he does it, Cummings,
who has won innumerable awards for
his contribution to the science, art and
popularization of aviation, says simply:
“Well, I’m not an entertainer in the sense
that such greats as Danny Kaye and Jack
Benny are. I’m not a singer like Sinatra
or Dean Martin. So when I’m asked to
appear at a charity event, I tell them that
I’ll do what I do best—fly my plane for
them.
“You’d be amazed to learn the high
percentage of Americans who have
never flown . . . never even set foot in a
plane. Only about 12 per cent of the U.S.
population has ever flown. In Europe,
more than 20 per cent fly regularly, if
only on a vacation.
“But at these charity affairs, people
who could afford to fly but who haven’t
either out of apathy or a baseless fear,
rush to try to win the prize flights. They
seem to like the idea.”
That’s putting it mildly. Recently, the
United Way committee was having a
hard time getting enough attendance to
fill one dining room at their Bel-Air
Hotel luncheon meeting. Then they
announced that a flight with Cummings
would be the door prize. Immediately
they were faced with the dilemma of
either moving the event to a larger place
or of using two dining rooms at the hotel.
There’s only one drawback to Bob’s
door-prize flights for charity. Bob’s
promise to fly the winners is always
fulfilled on the following weekend,
when they meet him at the Santa Monica
Airport. This means precious time away
from his family. But Cummings solved
that problem his own way. He takes
fewer passengers on each ride, but now
his children take turns accompanying
him and his passengers on each flight.
If anyone doubts the potency of Dr.
Cummings’s philosophy for success, they
have only to look to his son. “Living in a
dream fulfilled” has worked out mighty
well for Charles Clarence Robert
Orville Cummings, Jr.

STEVE McQUEEN—
“ALWAYS BE YOURSELF”
by WILLIAM L. ROPER
Dare to be an individual!
There, in that one line, you have the
key to the nonconformist thinking that has
made Steve McQueen, one-time juvenile
delinquent, an outstanding film and
television star. Now at thirty-six, he is
earning $500,000 a year. And a few
years ago, Time Magazine nominated
him the most logical successor of John
Wayne, top Hollywood Western actor.
In thinking and working his way out
of what once looked like a dead-end
street, the boyish-faced McQueen has
pointed up certain lessons in self-
improvement which should inspire and
help young and old alike. His story is
particularly inspiring for those at the
bottom of the ladder.
For not so many years ago, Terrence
Stephen McQueen was down there
himself. His problems began early in
life. Not long after his birth in
Indianapolis, Indiana, on March 24,
1930, his parents were divorced. He
never knew his father, who was killed
while flying in China for Chennault’s
Raiders. For a few years he and his
mother lived with her uncle on a farm in
Slater, Missouri. But when Steve was
six, his mother remarried. That was the
beginning of new trouble. To quote
McQueen: “I loved my mother, but my
stepfather was something else again.”
Feeling frustrated and unloved, he
began running with a wild gang of
youthful delinquents when his mother
and stepfather moved to California. At
fourteen, he had become such a problem
child that his parents decided he should
be placed in a correctional institution.
So they sent him to the California Junior
Republic, a privately operated
rehabilitation school for wayward boys
at Chino, California.
Although Steve admits he was
miserable during his first months at the
school, he gives the school counselors
credit for calming him down and talking
some sense into him during a
particularly trying period of his youth.
“I went to school in the morning and
in the afternoon worked in the laundry,”
he recalls. “That laundry bugged me, and
after about three months of it, I took off.”
His attempted runaway, however,
was unsuccessful. He had gone only a
few miles when police captured him and
returned him to the Junior Republic.
Upon his return, he expected a severe
paddling. But instead, a staff member put
his arm around Steve’s shoulders and
talked to him like an older brother.
“He began to get through to me,”
Steve said. From that time on, Steve
behaved himself and began taking a new
interest in his studies.
Meanwhile, his stepfather died and
his mother moved to New York. She sent
for Steve. After a brief stay with his
mother, he shipped out as an ordinary
seaman on a tanker bound for the West
Indies. Then after more adventures as a
laborer in the Texas oil fields and a tree
topper in Canada, he enlisted in the
Marine Corps.
After doing his hitch in the Marines,
which included coldweather amphibious
maneuvers in Labrador, he was
discharged at Camp Lejeune, North
Carolina, in April of 1950. His military
pay did not last long. Once more he was
adrift without a job. He went to New
York, rented a cold-water flat in
Greenwich Village for nineteen dollars a
month. There he tried selling
encyclopedias and earning a precarious
living by various part-time jobs.
The hardships that he encountered in
these unprofitable ventures knocked into
Steve’s head what counselors at the
Junior Republic and other adults had
been trying unsuccessfully to tell him for
years: that it pays to learn a craft; that a
man without a craft, skill or a profession
has a hard time in today’s world. A girl
he met in Greenwich Village also helped
him to get started on the right track.
“You ought to try acting,” she said. She
suggested he go to see Sanford Meisner,
director of the Neighborhood Playhouse.
Meisner was impressed with the
youthful McQueen. At least the kid was
different. He was an individual, not
trying to imitate some celebrity.
“Yes, I think it was his original
personality,” Meisner said later. “He
insisted on being himself.”
McQueen studied at the Playhouse for
two years. A G.I. Bill of Rights
scholarship helped to finance his
training. How important is such training?
He said:
“Like any profession, it is important for
an actor—whether he is interested in
Westerns, musicals or drama—to learn
his craft. This requires time and effort.
The boy or girl interested in an acting
career should study with a competent
coach or dramatic school to obtain the
background that is essential. Most actors
put in at least five years of training
before they become an ‘overnight
success.’ Actually, there is no such thing
as an ‘overnight success.’ I’ve been in
the business since 1953. With Westerns
in mind, specifically, it is helpful if the
actor is knowledgeable of the tools of
the trade. For instance, he must know
how to ride and handle a gun. First and
foremost, though, it is important to have
a good background and basic knowledge
of the craft.”
In other words, you have to be an actor
—and that is much more important than
being quick on the draw or knowing how
to handle a cow pony.
While attending Manhattan’s
Neighborhood Playhouse, Steve won a
scholarship to the Herbert Berghof
Studio, and later received further
training at the Actor’s Studio in New
York. His career really began when he
replaced Ben Gazzara in Broadway’s
Hatful of Rain in 1956. He married
Neile Adams, a dancer-singer in Pajama
Game, that year. Today they live in a
beautiful mountain-top home in
Hollywood and have two children.
Although he is best know as the reckless
bounty hunter in the CBS television
series, “Wanted—Dead or Alive,” he
has played important roles in “Never So
Few,” “The Magnificent Seven,” “Hell
Is for Heroes,” “Great Escape,” “Love
with the Proper Stranger,” “Soldier in
the Rain,” “The Traveling Lady” and
“The Cincinnati Kid.”
Talking with him, you soon discover that
the real Steve McQueen is much more
than the 174-pound, nearly six-foot
maverick you have admired on the
screen. He is also a philosopher and a
shrewd businessman.
“Every bit of money I make I am
investing in things that will make it
secure for my wife and family,” he said.
With a shy smile, he explained that he
believed he had matured quite a bit since
the wild adventurous days of his youth,
and that he was devoted to his craft.
“I believe I’m still learning,” he added.
“I love my craft. I swing with what I’m
doing. When acting ceases to be fun,
that’s the time to give it up. I enjoy
acting. I truly like my work. But the
public is often unaware that acting is
also hard work. Most days I’m up at
5:00 A .M. to be on the set by 6:30 for
make-up and wardrobe assignments.
Often I don’t get home till 7:30 in the
evening or later. Nights when I work out
at the gym, and I try to do this three times
a week to keep in shape, I may not get
home until 10:00 P.M. With this kind of
schedule, you have to like what you’re
doing.”
McQueen makes no claim of having any
secret formula for success, but he
believes he has learned a few of the
rules in the school of hard knocks.
Rule one: he says, is to be yourself—
dare to be an individual—don’t try to
copy someone else’s style.
Rule two: study and work to improve
yourself in your chosen craft.
Rule three: have a positive mental
attitude and the courage to try. In other
words, dare to take a chance.
Those who think he is now on top
because of some miraculous luck forget
the long hours of hard work that he spent
in preparation for his career, he points
out.
“Hard work is essential to any lasting
success,” he adds. “Don’t let work bug
you.”

RUDY VALLEE— THE

FEELING OF SUCCESS
by RUDY VALLEE
as told to Larston D. Farrar
Numerous persons have asked me
the same question in the past few years.
With a few minor variations in wording,
it always boils down to this: “Rudy, how
does it feel to have made a successful
comeback at the age of sixty?”
My reply—and I’ve reached a point
beyond irritation and can only be
amused—is, “How can I make a
comeback when I’ve never been away?”
 As a mater of fact, during the years
when I was out of the national limelight
—from about 1950, when my nationwide
radio show went off the air, until I
bounced back in 1962 as co-star in the
Broadway play “How to Succeed in
Business Without Really Trying”—I was
still very much in touch with the public.
I appeared in hundreds of supper
clubs and night spots from coast to coast,
drawing good crowds and earning sums
which, by any standard, would be
counted as “handsome” by the average
man.
My wife and I traveled together to
many engagements, and we caught new
glimpses of a growing, changing,
kaleidoscopic, expanding nation at work
and at play. I believe that those years
were as productive and happy for me
and to me as the years when I starred
weekly in my own radio show with
listeners by the millions. And those
years were as fruitful as the more recent
period when I have co-starred in a
Broadway hit show.
To me, the capacity to earn money
has never been a measurement of
success. It is my belief that a person
must develop a philosophy early in life
which permits him to have as much
pleasure, enjoyment and satisfaction
now as is possible without injuring
himself or others. Money can help to do
this, but it is not and must not become the
sole aim of a person’s existence. We all
know what happened to King Midas.
Back in the little town in Maine
where my father was proprietor of a
drugstore, I learned that success must be
something that a person feels. It is in his
own head and heart. I also learned that
success, both figuratively and literally,
is in each person’s hands—what he does
with the time and tools available to him
each day.
Success is a subjective concept, so it
must necessarily be in our heads. To use
an old phrase, “One man’s meat is
another man’s poison.” To a man who
has goals of great political power, there
is no feeling of being successful unless
he wins the race for Governor, for
Senator, for President, or whatever
office he seeks. Another person whose
goal is to be head bookkeeper of his
company has succeeded when he is
promoted to the desired job. He has
achieved success, the kind he wanted,
and no one can take that feeling from
him.
My earliest ambition was to become
a good saxophonist. In those days, a half
century ago, there were relatively few
saxophonists in the United States. Only a
handful of men were tops with the
instrument. I not only idolized them, I
wrote fan-letters and mimicked them and
strove to learn from them. My burning
ambition was to be like them, and as
good with the sax as they were. When I
could play as well as the top men of
those days, I achieved the feeling of
success.
That feeling has never left me,
although in later years I became better
known in other fields. My sax was
always close at hand, but I realized that
it had been a stepping-stone to other
goals.
After playing my saxophone in a
small theater, I was able to convince my
father that I could earn money. He
became reconciled to the fact that I
would never be a druggist, as he had
hoped. But it took me a longer time to
realize that big success is preceded by a
period of preparation. Writers go
through a “gestation” period before a
story or a play or book is actually
underway. Persons in other fields have
similar experiences before developing a
complete idea.
Because I had used my head and
hands—my talents and my energies—to
learn how to achieve in one field, I was
able to use the knowledge gained
thereby to act, to direct a band, to direct
a radio show, to help choose songs and
talent for popular appeal and appraisal.
Philosophers have had much to say
about personal achievement, but as I
have studied their various works, they
seem to agree that success is in each
man’s head and in his own hands.
Alan Seeger, the American poet,
asserted: “Success in life means doing
that things which nothing else
conceivable seems more noble or
satisfying or remunerative.” He meant
that which paid off in satisfaction and in
good feeling as well as in money.
The great German philosopher
Nietzsche wrote that “Nothing ever
succeeds which exuberant spirits have
not helped to produce.”
Alexander Smith, the Scottish poet,
said: “In the wide area of the world,
failure and success are not accidents, as
we so frequently suppose, but the
strictest justice. If you do your fair day’s
work, you are certain to get your fair
day’s wage—in praise or pudding,
whichever happens to suit your taste.”
And Benjamin Disraeli, English
statesman, writer and Prime Minister to
Queen Victoria, once said: “The secret
of success is constancy to purpose.”
Although my rise in radio was called
“meteoric,” I had prepared myself for
big goals by going to college, playing
with bands on weekends and by taking
part in college activities. Through
working, studying, playing and meeting
the challenges of young manhood, I
learned how things worked in show
business. I learned to seek good advice
from those best equipped to give it to
me. Also I learned that sometimes the
best advice given with the best
intentions still goes sour. Ultimately, I
began to realize that each of us must
make his own decisions.
That early practice playing in
nightclub bands proved invaluable when
I went on the stage as a radio performer
at the New York Paramount and the
Brooklyn Paramount. This, in turn,
prepared me for Hollywood and a movie
career that interspersed my radio
performances in the 1930s.
The years I was not in the national
scene—from 1950 to 1961—were not
periods of idleness. I was not “away.” I
changed my method of serving the
public. I was able to be flexible. Those
years permitted me to improve my
appearance, voice and mannerisms
before live audiences in small, intimate
nightclubs. Thus, I considered myself
better prepared for a new career—a role
in “How to Succeed in Business Without
Really Trying.”
When the play was pronounced a
success by the seven key New York
critics and assured a long run, the
sacrifices, rigorous days and nights of
rehearsals, one-night-stands in small
cities as a nightclub performer were
forgotten. When the crowds began to
scramble for seats to this new Broadway
play, I knew I was experiencing still
another type of achievement and
preparing for opportunities the future
might offer!

FLORENCE CHADWICK
— “WINNERS NEVER
QUIT; QUITTERS NEVER
WIN”
by HARVEY J. BERMAN
Late in 1952, with television
facilities spanning a nation focused on
her alone, Florence Chadwick strode
into the outgoing tide and began her
epic-making swim from Catalina Island
to Los Angeles, across a channel noted
for its treacherous undertow, its tricky
currents and the heavy pull of the tides.
Fourteen hours later, she reached the
coastline and an estimated 50 million
TV onlookers, held by the taut dream of
a woman defying the sea, cheered as
one.
Not that it was the first time that
Florence Chadwick had attempted the
seemingly impossible and succeeded. In
1950, for example, she announced that
she would venture the grind from cap
Gris Nez, France, to St. Margaret’s Bay
in England.
When informed of the perils she
faced, Florence smiled politely, heard
the speaker out, and then quietly related
how as a girl she had set her mind on a
Channel crossing and how she had spent
years preparing for it. “Don’t ask me
how I know I’ll make it,” she declared,
eyes flashing. “I just have known all
along that when the right moment came
I’d be here and would make it to the
other side.”
Her firm belief that she would
succeed where others had failed was not
based on whimsy. Because she had so
earnestly longed to swim the strait, she
had studied it thoroughly. She had also
carefully analyzed the swimming
techniques of those who had won out and
had accepted their best for her own.
When she finally stepped into the
surf and started from the French coast,
battling an adverse sea and high winds
all the way, her stroke was easy and
accurately calculated to bring her to
England, and an amazed world prepared
to hail the woman who conquered the
“Cap Gris Nez death run.”
Yet no matter how much the world
saw of the swimmer during the next few
months, it still could have no real
conception of what success really meant
to Florence Chadwick, an internationally
famous aquatic star who once, however,
almost gave up her career in despair.
At the age of six, she had been
entered by her father in a San Diego
race. The distance was exactly fifty
yards, and her parents, who had watched
her past performances with undisguised
enthusiasm, were certain that their
daughter—at home more in the water
than on land—would triumph.
However, Florence was the last to
reach the finish line. A year later at San
Clemente, despite the fact that she had
prepared for the event with quiet fury
and intensity, she failed again.
It was a bewildered youngster who
returned home and unhappily clung to
her father. But detective Richard
Chadwick knew his daughter better than
she knew herself. The water was her life
and he had faith in her ability.
“Let’s try it together,” he told her
soon after her fiasco. “Sometimes we
tend to forget that a team can accomplish
far more than any individual player.
Well, now we’re a team, you and I. Let’s
work, plan, and try together—and in the
end, we’ll win together.”
Florence studied and practiced with
seemingly endless persistence for the
next five years. At the age of eleven she
won her first major victory—a six-mile
endurance trial.
Excited, at last certain that the motto
she believed in, “Winners never quit;
quitters never win,” would now begin to
pay big dividends, Florence Chadwick
became totally seaminded. For hours
each day, without exception, and in the
winter’s chill as well as the summer’s
heat, she became a familiar sight in the
waters around San Diego. Through little
advancements in her technique, she
gained speed and stamina, as well as the
all-important reservoir of self-
confidence. And always, when in
trouble, she could turn to her father and
the “team.”
Soon after her fourteenth birthday,
she told her father, “I think I’m ready for
a try at the National Backstroke title.”
He listened, broke into a smile, and
asked simply, “Are you sure, Florence?
How do you know?” To which his
daughter replied, “I know I’m ready
because this time I’m sure I’m going to
win.”
Only one obstacle stood between
Florence and a coveted national
championship award. That barrier was
another equally determined young lady,
Eleanor Holm.
Florence never won her cup. In as
exciting a race between backstrokers as
this nation has ever witnessed, Miss
Holm went on to earn national acclaim,
while Florence had to content herself
with the other titles she had won that
year.
At about this time, she began to
wonder if a career in the water was
meant for her. That doubt was to linger
for many years. “Sure,” she once told a
group of friends, “I can win my share,
take long-distance events, and manage to
do pretty well all around against
competition.” But to a girl who wanted
to win as badly as Florence Chadwick,
being an “also ran” in the big contests
wasn’t quite good enough.
With the announcement of the
upcoming 1936 Olympics, the tryouts
claimed her attention. Back to the pool
she went, determined to make a “do-or-
die” attempt. If she failed, she vowed,
she would drop swimming, never to
come back to it again.
But when the preliminaries were
held to select an American team, the
story for Florence was the same. She
placed fourth, one rung away from a
berth.
“I’ve had it,” the tired star told
newspapermen on the afternoon of her
defeat.
In the years that followed, she turned to
Hollywood, swam through a few movies
and married. Her name faded from the
American aquatic scene.
Then, after years out of the water, she
realized that swimming had been her
entire life. Somewhere along the way,
she had lost sight of the fact that medals
weren’t everything. “I guess I always
understood what I wanted out of life. But
that understanding became clouded,
perhaps by a relentless desire to win, to
be the best. The real values showed
through at last. I decided that most of all,
I wanted to swim. If the awards came, so
much the better. But to be in the water,
from that moment on, became the all-
important thing.”
In August 1950, Florence freed herself
from the long and bitter years of
frustration at last when she swam across
the choppy English Channel in thirteen
hours and twenty minutes.
A year later, she was back at the Channel
to swim the more treacherous route—
from England to France. People were
none too optimistic about her chances.
For weeks, English newspapers had
reported that in swimming from England
to France, she was risking her life to no
avail. She would never succeed.
During this period, she said nothing,
waiting patiently for the Channel to grow
calmer and for the dense haze to lift.
Finally, before dawn one morning, she
made her bid. Kissing her father
farewell, she began a trip that was to
make her internationally famous
overnight.
Those who witnessed it later reported
that her swim was one of the most
remarkable attempts ever made by
anyone—man or woman—on the
difficult strait. But to Florence herself, it
was perhaps as close to death as she
ever will come in the water again. Only
minutes out, she realized full well that
her life hung in the balance.
After three hours, agonizing cramps
gripped her, first in her legs and then in
her stomach. As the day progressed, the
fog, instead of clearing, grew thicker. As
one onlooker put it, “It was like
smothering slowly under a heavy woolen
blanket.”
In the meantime, aboard the boat
escorting her, the swimmer’s ailing
father took ill suddenly and, to
complicate matters, when night fell her
guides and she became separated at sea.
In London, it was reported that Florence
was missing. Emergency auxiliary craft
were readied for dispatch.
She looked around her, saw nothing but
the sea. As she was to point out later,
“There was nothing else to do but go on,
so I did.”
A short time later her escort boat found
her and they continued together.
Sixteen hours later, a dog-tired, dazed
Florence Chadwick stumbled onto the
French beach. While the crowd roared
its approval, she collapsed, and asking
only about her father, she permitted the
sleep she had fought for two-thirds of a
day in the water to claim her. When she
was to awake, she was to find that the
world had labeled her “the greatest
female swimming star of all time.”
The fate that she had battled for thirty
years had at last turned, and Florence
Chadwick—“with God’s patient help,”
as she explained it—had become an
unqualified success. “Winners never
quit; quitters never win” was the motto
she had once adopted. Through the
agonizing frustration of repeated failure
she had gone on to prove its validity not
only to the world, but to a harder-to-
please Florence Chadwick.

DAVID JANSSEN—
FUGITIVE FROM
FAILURE
by DUANE VALENTRY
What makes the man behind The
Fugitive run? David Janssen, now a top
star because of the popular television
series, gives reality to the part because
for many years he had been on the run
himself—from failure.
“To some people, success produces
nothing but the fear of failure,” he says.
“It can be a curse. I think if you’re
successful you should at least be able to
sit back and enjoy it. Having been broke
once, I’m not afraid of being broke
again. I won’t appreciate it though!”
During his ups and downs, David
Janssen once ran up a bill at a restaurant
close to one thousand dollars—credit
extended because the owner believed in
him as much as he believed in himself.
“But there are those who accept
generosity and trust and promptly
disappear when they’re in a position to
pay,” says a friend. “Not David. The
minute he was able to, he started paying
on his account. The balance went down
—then one day the owner received a
check in full.”
Today he spends much of his leisure
time at this restaurant and is its strongest
booster.
“If he likes you, there’s nothing he
wouldn’t do,” agrees a friend, composer
Peter Rugolo. “And he doesn’t forget
you.”
Peter wrote the music for the Richard
Diamond, Detective series in which
Janssen starred several years ago. When
he was offered the current series, David
made certain that the musical score of
The Fugitive was written by Rugolo.
Grateful to those who played a part in
his career and who believed in him, he
doesn’t hesitate to say so. He also
generously credits his wife with much of
his success since their marriage seven
years ago.
“Ours is a great marriage,” he says, “and
it’s all Ellie’s doing. She has a sense of
humor and she’s understanding. Ellie
made me more sociable. I never had
many friends before our marriage. But I
have them now—good friends—and
Ellie is responsible. People are drawn
to her. Unavoidably, maybe, they are
drawn to me, too. I relax more around
people now and I don’t question their
every move. When I do, Ellie ribs the
heck out of me and that takes care of
that.”
As a boy, when his show business
mother moved many times and then
remarried, there was the need to adjust
—to new surroundings, to a stepfather—
and he did.
In 1957 when he starred in the Richard
Diamond series, he thought his fun from
failure was at an end and admits he
“lived it up.”
“I was part playboy and part bum. My
life consisted mainly of cashing my pay
check and paying off my tailor—and my
bar tabs.”
But the network dropped his show and
he felt the ground go out from under him.
So many “Diamond” fans protested,
however, that it was resumed. This
happened four times and each time the
actor had a difficult adjustment to make.
But the series lasted four seasons and
each time it was renewed his salary
went up.
There was something missing, though, in
his carefree bachelor existence and he
was beginning to realize it. Then he met
Ellie Graham, a divorcee with two teen-
age daughters, and a solid friendship
finally led to marriage and the
adjustment of owning his own home for
the first time along with assuming the
responsibilities of marriage and a
family.
“Nothing ever seemed to be a problem
with David—either success or the lack
of it,” says his sister. “He was always
able to cope with anything. He tries to
work his problems out by himself.”
There’s no lazy success, no sitting on
your laurels and no time to quit
educating yourself, in this man’s opinion.
“He’s an extremely literate man who
reads constantly,” an associate notes. “In
fact, he keeps us abreast of what to read.
And his opinions and observations are
brilliant.”
Words interest him, and he is an enemy
of the cliché in any form. But literate as
he is, some say he has a deep inferiority
complex over his lack of a college
education, despite the fact that he signed
his first contract, with Universal, when
he was twentyone. Why does he read so
much? “I figure when I get older, I’ll
have something to talk about!”
When Janssen bought a Cadillac, friends
say he was afraid it might be a “status
image.”
“Why do I drive it? Because it’s so
comfortable and I love it!”
No pretensions here—he makes fun of
the movie star image frequently, while
appreciating to the full its advantages.
Nor does Dr. Richard Kimble’s alter ego
enjoy talking about himself. He won’t do
it if he can get out of it.
A lack of order disturbs David Janssen
now that he has that security and stability
so long missing from his life. Often
kidded by friends about it, he hangs up
everybody’s coat or jacket, with the
mumbled excuse: “My nature—very
neat.”
His own impeccable appearance has
become a trademark. “I hardly ever have
to clean my clothes because I just don’t
get them dirty,” he shrugs.
He wasn’t always that way. “I was very
sloppy, from twelve to twenty-two. I
used to throw everything around out of
defiance for having to be neat.” Now he
tells daughters Kathy and Diane that it’s
“better for their mental state to have a
neat room.”
Dr. Richard Kimble is a kind man who
helps people, and viewers trust him.
David Janssen sometimes hides behind a
façade because he genuinely dislikes
sentimentality or a show of emotion, but
it doesn’t fool those who know him.
“It’s not hostility directed toward
people,” says an actress who works with
him, “and not a personal thing. I’ve
never heard him speak in a deprecating
way of people he’s worked with. His
cynicism is directed toward restrictions,
ways of life, social atmosphere,
pretension.”
If he does get angry, he doesn’t let his
anger show, according to his sister, who
adores him. “I’m sure there have been
several crises in his life, as in
everyone’s, but David is a very sweet
person and he stays that way.”
In this modern age, success is still
synonymous with hard work, insists
Jansen.
“You have no idea how much work goes
into an hour show. It’s three times harder
than doing a half-hour show and that’s
not faulty arithmetic. We need seven
days to complete a show so it takes a lot
of time juggling to get haircuts, buy
clothes, have a social life of sorts and
tell my wife I love her. But sometimes,
even when I’m doing those things, my
mind is with Dr. Kimble and his
problems.” Yet he had to be urged to
take a two-andone-half week vacation
not long ago.
“It was really my first vacation—I just
never had time before, and if I did I was
broke. This time I had the money to go
and a career to come back to. But I
wouldn’t want to do that every day—I
like to work. The vacation is a reward
for the work.”
Success is rarely gained without
setbacks. David recalls his first big one
when he hurt his knee during a pole-
vault competition in his senior year of
high school. There were athletic
scholarships waiting for him at two
universities and he had to turn them both
down.
There were also disappointments in the
acting field which helped make him the
man he is today.
“I guess it was being too small or too
tall for the part for too many years,” he
says. Universal dropped him after his
return from two bleak years in the Army.
“It was a pretty frustrating time. You’re
impatient. You feel that if you have talent
why don’t they see it? Your ego is
wounded. But this town is filled with
people who were turned down and went
on to become great successes.
“Whenever things went wrong, I’d brood
for weeks. Then Ellie would say that
lots of disappointing things happen for
the best and something better will come
along, and something always did.”
When the staring role in The Fugitive
was first offered to him, David
considered it for some time before
accepting.
“I had doubts about the fugitive
character—he was mostly negative,
always running away. But we found
ways to strengthen him.”
Today, fascinated with Dr. Kimble, he is
glad he owns a part of the show which
shows no sign of decreasing in
popularity.
“Sometimes I have the nice feeling that
each morning several planes take off in
all directions carrying prints of The
Fugitive. It was even showing in Puerto
Rico when I was there, and only three
weeks late.”
Success—and most importantly,
happiness—are no longer fugitives to
David Janssen.

C. W. POST— “JUST A
LITTLE BIT BETTER”
by DAVE HILL
The February wind was bitter that
day in 1891 when the fortyyear-old
bankrupt stood on the steps of the Battle
Creek, Michigan, City Hall, auctioning
off his personal goods. Broken in health
as well as wealth, he stood close to
tears as he saw his most treasured gun
go for a ridiculously low price. The
future seemed to lay as bleak before him
as the wintery sky above.
And, in 1903, the same man made a
net profit of over a million dollars.
Today, 60 years later, his name—well,
have you ever heard of “Postum” or
“Post Toasties?” C. W. Post now is
recognized as one of the great business
successes of the past century. This is the
story of that man, the man who built his
future by making things “just a little bit
better.”
 When he auctioned off his goods that
day in 1891, Post was paying off a string
of debts incurred while living at the
famous Battle Creek Sanitarium. He and
his wife had come there from Texas a
short time before, destitute after failure
of his health and his milling business in
Texas. At the sanitarium he met Dr. W.
K. Kellogg who said later that he found
Post “in a wheelchair, greatly emaciated
. . . and he paid his bills with blankets
salvaged from his Texas mill . . .”
At the sanitarium Post developed an
interest in health foods and their health-
restoring powers. He became a man
obsessed. But, obsession or no, he was
soon on his feet again and he gave health
foods all the credit. They had done
wonders for him—why not for others?
Where a lesser man would have simply
rejoiced in his own recovery, Post saw a
great frontier of opportunity beckoning.
He saw that this was something for the
millions.
Soon Post had his own sanitarium,
using his recently developed theories of
health foods—the La Vita Inn. Before
long, Battle Creek became known as
“Foodtown, U.S.A.”
Not satisfied with small success,
Post traveled to France to study under
the famous French physician, Jean
Charcot. One of his fellow pupils, it
might be noted was a man named
Sigmund Freud. Next Post went to
Bavaria and studied with Father
Sebastian Kneip, famed for his “back-to-
nature” cures.
Coming home, Post was full of ideas
—but the biggest was strictly his own.
Coffee he could not stand, both on
dietary grounds and because it was
“narcotic.” Remembering hard times in
Texas, he made some “Texas coffee”—
roasted chicory and wheat. Other men
would have let it go at that—he had
developed a beverage which suited his
needs—but not Post. He saw a product
that could be sold.
For two years he studied and
experimented, finally developing a drink
he called “instant Postum.” Investing a
whopping $68.76, he set up a shop
behind his little La Vita Inn in January,
1895.
Soon he had packages of Postum
ready to sell. All he needed now, it
seemed, was a market. Taking an armful,
he called on a little store in Battle
Creek. “Nothing doing,” he was told.
Undaunted, he went to Grand Rapids and
walked into the biggest grocery store in
town.
“It’s absolutely useless to sell that,”
the grocer said. “Look.” He pointed to a
stack of balelike packages of something
called Caramel Coffee he’d bought from
the Battle Creek Sanitarium years
before. “Some years I sell one package,
some years none. There is no demand.
You’d better go and get into a business
where there is a market.”
 “There will be a demand, soon
enough,” Post said, walking out.
He went straight to the office of the
Grand Rapids newspaper and entered an
ad. Soon his advertising had created a
demand—and business boomed. Quickly
and with the insight of genius, Post
realized the enormity of his discovery.
Advertising, as a selling tool, was still a
virgin science. Many companies refused
to “stoop” to it. Most advertising, in the
early 1900s, was for patent medicines.
Often a firm would find bankers
withdrawing credit when they began to
advertise.
This didn’t stop Post—instead, it
inspired him. He began to advertise,
creating single-handedly almost every
device practiced by Madison Avenue
today. Alexander Woollcott, in a moment
of humorous insight, called Post the
“Henry Ford of the digestive tract.”
Before long, his company showed a
profit of $260,000—a far cry from his
meager beginnings.
“What are you going to do with the
profits?” asked an associate.
“I’m going to stick it all right back into
advertising,” said Post.
“It’s not enough to sell food. After you
get it halfway down the customer’s
throat with advertising, you’ve got to
make them swallow it.”
This, too, was a pioneering venture—
and it reaped rich rewards. Before long,
other Post products appeared—Post
Toasties for one. This had originally
come out under the odd name of
“Elijah’s Manna.” Some religious
groups had taken offense, and he’d
changed to the name we know it under
today.
Besides pioneering in advertising, Post
was ahead of his time in his health-diet
theories. Scientists today, with much
deeper knowledge of the subjects, admit
to the rightness of many of his claims.
When Post claimed, “There’s a reason,”
as he did on his early advertisements for
Grape Nuts, he was stating a simple
scientific truth.
On the road to the factories in Battle
Creek, Post placed a sign reading “The
Road to Wellville.” He should have
added— “and to success.” For to C. W.
Post, the road back to health was also
the road to success.

DR. SCHOLL—
FOOTSTEPS TO SUCCESS
by BOB FERGUSON
A woman shopper strolled slowly
down Chicago’s Wabash Avenue,
burdened by a stack of packages and
supported by a pair of aching, burning
feet.
Suddenly she was confronted by a
tall, well-dressed gentleman with a
smiling face and the erect carriage of a
drum major. Sympathetically inquiring if
her feet were troubling her, he suggested
he might be able to help, steered her into
a nearby shop and invited her to sit
down. He then pulled up a shoefitter’s
stool, removed her high-heeled shoes
and inspected them and her feet. After
disappearing into a back room, he
returned with a shoe box and fitted the
woman to a handsome pair of walking
shoes.
“You’ll be more comfortable now,”
he said. “Please accept the shoes with
my compliments.”
Whereupon he strode out.
“Who,” gasped the shopper, “was that?”
“That,” said a man standing nearby,
“was Dr. Scholl.”
And so another person became aware
that the name which has become
synonymous with “foot comfort” actually
belongs to a living, breathing human
being.
The possessor of one of the most widely
known and readily recognized names in
the world is William M. Scholl, M.D.,
who for the past half century has been
tirelessly carrying out a crusade to bring
relief to aching feet.
Testifying to his success are ten
manufacturing plants in the United States
and six foreign countries and 424 “Dr.
Scholl’s Foot Comfort Shops,” scattered
through 57 nations. In addition to these
directly controlled product outlets, Dr.
Scholl’s foot aids and remedies are sold
in thousands of shoe, drug, department
and variety stores all over the world.
Dr. Scholl’s story is the story of a man
with an idea, ambition and
perseverance.
The doctor himself does not consider his
accomplishments unusual; he feels that
all of us have the potential to become
whatever we want to be.
“If you believe in yourself, believe in
your ideas and are willing to work for
them,” says the doctor, “you can make
your dreams come true.”
His formula for success might be
summed up as, “When you get an idea,
don’t think it out—work it out.” The
personal story of Dr. Scholl is dramatic
proof that his advice works.
One of a family of thirteen children,
young William Scholl discovered early
that the routine of life on a dairy farm
near La Porte, Indiana, was little to his
liking. His interests lay along other
lines. When he was fifteen he showed an
aptitude for working with leather by
designing and sewing a complete set of
harness. This entailed building the tools
with which he worked, making his own
waxed thread, cutting the straps from full
side leather, and putting it all together
with 132,000 hand-sewn stitches. The
“jig”—a device for holding the leather
while he worked on it—may be seen
today in the exhibit room of his main
plant in Chicago.
From this beginning in leathercraft, Billy
Scholl “picked up” shoe work and soon
found himself serving as unofficial
cobbler to his family. To expand his
knowledge and to put his newfound
talent on a paying basis, he became
apprenticed to a La Porte shoemaker.
However, this didn’t satisfy him for
long. He soon mastered the cobbler’s
trade and, in a move that was to prove
prophetic of the man, sought wider
horizons. He moved to Chicago and a
job in a shoe store where he proved a
fine craftsman, and also made the
discovery that he had a flair for selling.
Dr. Scholl believes that it was the early
Chicago experiences which showed him
the course his life was to take. His work
in the shoe store led the young man to
two conclusions: feet were horribly
abused by their owners, and nothing
much was being done about it. Also,
somewhere in his life, he had learned
that conditions remain unchanged only as
long as nobody changes them.
This, then, was the crossroads for young
Mr. Scholl. He had a choice of
remaining what he was, a skilled
craftsman and talented salesman, or
embarking on a new career. He chose the
latter.
Because he knew that people the world
over were plagued with aching feet,
because he believed this did not have to
be and because he had faith in his own
ability, he set forth on a selfappointed
mission to become foot doctor to the
world. He had found a goal. Now he
planned his method of reaching it, and
set to work.
But young Billy Scholl was faced with
two problems. He had a job but no
savings and, aside from his own
untrained observations, knew nothing
about human feet. But this didn’t stop
him or even slow him down.
He arranged to work at night so that he
could attend medical school during the
day. He supplemented his regular
curriculum at Illinois Medical College
and Chicago Medical College by
studying every bit of literature then in
existence which had anything to do with
feet.
By the time he graduated with his M.D.
in 1904, he had designed and patented
his first arch support. So efficient was it
that “Dr. Scholl’s Foot-Easer” still is
one of the largest-selling items in the
company’s line of more than a thousand
different products. It differs from the
1904 model only in refinement of design.
Now that he had his beginning, the young
physician and inventor turned his talents
to manufacturing and merchandising. His
first “factory” was a store-front
cubbyhole at 285 West Madison Street in
Chicago where he and another young
man turned out arch supports for sale to
customers who came in for personal
fittings.
He soon discovered such an operation
had its limitations. So again seeking
wider horizons, Dr. Scholl packed up a
supply of Foot-Eazers and walked from
shoe store to shoe store selling them—
expanding his retail outlets.
But then, with about two thousand arch
supports on the market, the infant
industry suffered what was a near-fatal
blow. The Foot-Easers started coming
back. Made of leather and Swedish
steel, they proved vulnerable to
perspiration and soon rusted.
“It was discouraging, all right,”
remembers Dr. Scholl. “Here I was, just
getting a good start and it looked as
though my business career already had
ended.”
However, instead of giving up, declaring
bankruptcy or simply refunding his
customers’ money, the doctor went to
work and revamped his arch support,
substituting rustproof German silver for
steel. He then replaced, at no additional
cost, every Foot-Eazer he had sold.
“Actually, I gained from the experience,”
he says today. “By standing behind my
product to such an extent, I proved my
good faith and was rewarded with the
trust and respect of all my customers. I
also proved to myself that no obstacles,
no matter how difficult, are
insurmountable.”
This refusal to bow to adversity may be
found in all successful men. Every
situation has its pitfalls, its setbacks.
Things hardly ever come out exactly
right the first time they are tried. When
you put an idea to work, you must stick
with it. And when a bad situation arises,
you must learn to accept it, live with it
and overcome it. Nothing can be solved
by trying to run away and hide.
Over this first stumbling block turned
stepping-stone, Dr. Scholl moved
forward. By 1907 his enterprise had
been incorporated and moved to a new
location. Through persistence and hard
work he continued to widen his
horizons, and his products now were
being distributed across the country.
Also, many new Dr. Scholl’s products
now were being made and sold, and
their number was increasing by leaps
and bounds. Every time he got a new
idea for something he thought might help
to relieve an aching foot, Dr. Scholl sat
down with it and worked it out. And he
is still doing it. This means the line is
constantly expanding because never in
the company’s fifty-year history has a
product had to be discontinued.
His newest product, the “Ball-O-Foot
Cushion”—a device made of foam
rubber which protects the ball of the foot
from shock and pressure—was created
in the middle of the night in a hotel room
in California.
“You can’t always pick your spots,” says
Dr. Scholl. “You must go to work on an
idea as soon as it strikes you. If you wait
for the ideal time and place to work on
it, you probably never will.”
Even the United States soon proved too
small for Dr. Scholl. In 1908, he jumped
the border and opened a branch factory
in London and sales agencies all across
the continent. Today his enterprise
stretches around the world.
“I don’t feel a person should restrict
himself,” says Dr. Scholl. “No job is
really too big to tackle. I’ve always felt
that if I’ve come this far, there’s no
reason why I shouldn’t go a little
farther.”
Dr. Scholl has come a long way from the
Indiana farm boy who went to work and
made a set of harness. But, unfolded step
by step, his story contains no miracles or
mysteries unknown to the rest of us. It is
simply the putting to work of ideas.
“Whenever I get an idea, I try it out,”
says Dr. Scholl. “I would rather know
for certain that it is no good than do
nothing about it and wonder if it is
good.”
This is the secret of Dr. Scholl. No
secret at all, really. It is the practice of
following thought with action, a tried
and true formula for success that has
been proved many times and will be
proved again.
Perhaps it’s your turn.

DR. JAMES TURPIN—HIS

SUCCESS HAS NO PRICE
TAG
by ELEANORE PAGE HAMILTON
The infamous Walled City of
Kowloon lies in a ten-square-block area
of decay within the modern Chinese
metropolis of that name. Across the
seething harbor, the skyline of Hong
Kong’s capital shines in splendid
kinship with progressive cities
everywhere. Tourists who come to these
British colonies savor the Oriental
atmosphere and join a cosmopolitan way
of life without ever becoming involved
with the turbulence of people around
them. It is only in the refuse-strewn
alleys, on the hillsides and rooftops, and
among the junks of the crowded Yaumati
typhoon shelter that one comes face-to-
face with the realities of incredible
human suffering.
This is the setting for which Dr.
James Turpin traded a $60,000-a-year
medical practice in Coronado,
California. “These people need me,” he
explains simply. “Tens of thousands of
desperate refugees from communism
have converged on Hong Kong, swelling
the already overpopulated sectors of the
poor. And because I am selfish, I need
them too. I like the inner feeling of
satisfaction I get from helping them.”
It was in September of 1962, while
Typhoon Wanda raged, that “Dr. Jim”
arrived in Hong Kong with his wife
Martha, four children and a cortege of
volunteers. There was something
prophetic about that storm. The efforts of
this initial group spread over the island
and adjoining Kowloon with a like
vigor. In less than three years, a saying
of the villagers of Lyemun in Hong Kong
had been brought to life by the
organization called Project Concern:
“Under Heaven—one family.”
Through the generosity of a Chinese
doctor, a spacious house was placed at
their disposal. A houseboat clinic was
being remodeled for their use from a 65-
foot cargo junk. But Dr. Jim did not wait
for its completion to plunge into the
problems of the hurt humanity he had
come so many miles to help.
The Walled City, never a place of
easy access, was his first target. The
only way in is on foot; and there is
seldom a way out. Some twenty-five
thousand wretched souls inhabit this
section of Kowloon that Dr. Jim says has
been aptly named “Hell on Earth.” Here,
disease flourishes on poverty and an
appalling lack of water and sewage
facilities. Babies are born by the
hundreds into this fetid environment
every year.
“This impact of poverty is not
inheritable.” Dr. Jim maintains. “The
idea that the Chinese exist contentedly
on a handful of rice is a fallacy. They
don’t like it any more than we would.”
Before he came to Kowloon, some
British nurses had tried to do something
about this sector. They had gained
permission to operate a Child Care
Center there. It was desperately
inadequate. Hence, the Doctor’s offer to
work with them in the forbidden area
was God-sent. “Abandon all hope, O ye
who enter here,” he thought as he picked
his way along the narrow, dirty
passageways that served as streets.
“Well, mankind was not meant to live
without hope. We’ll get to know these
people intimately and start a program of
self-help to teach them how to survive.”
Almost immediately, he noticed a
small, sloe-eyed boy waiting patiently in
line for his daily milk ration. An open
sore purpled his ankle. Leaning down
for a better look, Dr. Jim discovered a
piece of broken chain imbedded in the
inflamed flesh. An interpreter revealed
that the child had been pinioned to an
old cot while his parents worked as
laborers. He had simply pulled himself
free like a dog from a steel trap.
Actually, this child was well-off by
local standards. Thousands of Hong
Kong urchins have no fixed abode. They
live in the hills or among the 135,000
pavement dwellers in the city, with no
known human ties—unless they are
adopted by a criminal gang.
It wasn’t long before Dr. Jim’s tall
figure and silvering crew cut were a
familiar sight in the Walled City. He
became a personal Pied Piper to the
children who followed him everywhere
he went in the gloomy corridors. Now
they are lined up early each morning,
hours before Project Concern opens its
clinic. There, they will be given the only
nourishment they may get all day—milk,
a chewable vitamin tablet and a high-
protein wafer.
When the houseboat was finished, it
was christened Yauh Oi (Brotherly
Love). Dr. Jim established his family “in
residence” below decks. Above are the
registration desk, examination rooms,
pharmacy and laboratories of the
floating clinic. A smaller converted hull,
the Ming Ling, is anchored alongside to
provide X-ray, dental and eye-ear-nose-
and-throat facilities.
The milk-and-vitamin routine here is
called a “survival party.” Dr. Jim says it
is easier to prevent diseases this way
than to cure them. Besides, eager hands
reaching from the junks and sampans that
bob endlessly on the watery terrain give
confidence to the more fearful boat
people. There are some 50,000 of them
in the Yaumati shelter. “These Tanka folk
have a saying— ‘water bred, water
dead’—and will live and die afloat,”
said Dr. Jim. “We had to bring our clinic
to them because they are too
superstitious to go ashore.”
Sampans nudging the clinic boats is
a continuous sound now. Often a more
cumbersome junk ties up to the Yauh Oi
for the duration of an illness. And the
Tanka people come in an endless,
frightened procession. They come in
awe and anxiety with such maladies as
tuberculosis, cholera, malaria and
leprosy. Skin diseases and dysentery—
always dysentery—plague them.
“We go wherever the need is
greatest,” is the way Dr. Jim describes
the widening circle of activity for
Project Concern. Word came to us that
there were about 12,500 near-destitute
villagers in a squatter area—the Jordan
Valley Resite. Our medical teams set up
a clinic there in an old abandoned
cemetery office.”
Coming along the docks to the Yauh
Oi one morning, a medical team was
attracted by a dense crowd in the duck
market. Pushing into the center of the
noisy throng, they saw a man seated on
the ground with an infant in each arm. A
sign with scrawled Chinese letters
proclaimed: “Babies for Sale.” Dr. Jim
commented that the now-and-then sale or
even the destruction of a female baby
was not prompted by a lack of affection.
It was always due to the survival factor.
The Orient is a crossroads of new
ideas and ancient philosophies. It isn’t
always easy to combat needle magic or
bizarre potions. Showing them love and
concern through personal contact is Dr.
Jim’s way. He feels that there is a
world-wide eagerness to learn today.
Many who work with him are Chinese.
And they have found the poor with their
problems of overpopulation anxious to
better their own lot through such
teachings as planned parenthood. It is
easier for them to learn from their own
people, within the concept of their own
traditions.
Since 1963, the addition of Dr. Jack
Wong to the staff made it possible to
create two medical teams to serve three
clinics— each with a registered doctor,
several Chinese unregistered physicians,
a lab technician, a registrar and a nurse.
Volunteers man the feeding programs.
With everything going well in Hong
Kong, the time had come for Dr. James
Turpin to move on. He had longed
planned an operation in Vietnam. In the
village of Dampao, two hundred miles
northeast of Saigon, he set up a clinic in
a thatched hut with bamboo walls. The
word went out that the American doctor
had come to help the Vietnamese and any
of the primitive mountain people who
would come to him!
Surprisingly, the Montagnards
poured from the Koho Mountains where
one hundred thousand of them lived in
animallike deprivation. Their
undernourished bodies were wracked by
the same diseases that harassed the
Chinese in Hong Kong and Kowloon.
Worse still, many were fear-ridden by
godless philosophies and acts that they
were ill equipped to understand.
It was in this unlikely tropical place
that a sort of miracle began to take
shape. Young men of Montagnard stock
asked questions. They were joined by
Vietnamese who came to watch the
doctor at work. “Why here is the hope of
these people,” he realized. “I can teach
them to care for their own kind.”
With the co-operation of the South
Vietnamese government, Dr. Jim
organized the young men and women of
the area into a corps of aides. When he
returned to the United States recently, he
left behind a hospital that treats 600 a
day, as well as 35 capable Village
Medical Officers who can administer 13
basic drugs for 90 percent of the
common diseases. Many will go into 25
villages in the vicinity to teach health
and sanitation.
What is the future of Project
Concern? Dr. Jim believes it is
unlimited. When he has completed his
current lecture and fundraising tour, he
will go back to Asia to continue his
work, leaving “Postmaster, San Diego,
California” as his mailing address. His
blue-grey eyes are clear and full of faith
as he assures his listeners that “We have
not seen any combination of privations
which defy our ability to correct in the
three years we have been in existence.”

ART WALTON—
PERSISTENCY,
PRESCRIPTION FOR
SUCCESS
by ELIZABETH LELLO
“Write a story about my success?
You’re putting me on!” The vibrant
voice came ringing over the telephone,
followed by a boyish laugh. “I don’t
think of myself as outstanding.”
“Anybody who can buy a broken-
down drug store and turn it into a
booming business in eight years is
outstanding. How old are you?”
The reply was almost apologetic.
“Thirty-two.”
That seemed awfully young from where I
stood. I wanted to
meet this Art Walton and find out how he
had done it. We made a date for the next
day and met in his office.
“Art,” I asked, picking up the threads
of our telephone conversation, “have you
always wanted to be a pharmacist?”
He laughed. “No, but when I was going
to high school in Los Angeles, a
neighbor said I looked like a pharmacist.
I still don’t know how a pharmacist is
supposed to look but her remark sent me
down to the corner drug store to talk to
Max Loman, the owner. What a guy! He
became a second father to me.
“I started taking Latin and Chemistry and
other subjects I’d need in pharmacy and
I began to concentrate on grades. I had
been sliding by on C’s but after I had a
goal I got A’s and B’s. When things got
tough I’d go down and talk to Mr.
Loman. I still do.”
“Did anyone else help you?”
“My wife LaVonne. We met when we
were juniors in high school and married
right after graduation. She liked the idea
of my becoming a pharmacist so we
went up north to the University of
California. Talk about togetherness. She
worked days in a bank and I was on the
swing shift at a rubber company nights.
We only saw each other on weekend!”
“When did you study?”
“Whenever I got a chance. My grades
were okay, except for ROTC. I got a D
in that, which temporarily washed me
up, although I could have gone to
summer school and made it up. Instead,
we wrote to schools all over the country
inquiring about their courses. The
University of Colorado was the only one
that seemed enthusiastic about having
me.”
I smiled.
“It’s true. They wrote a really friendly
letter and said we could borrow on the
University Fund for tuition and books, so
that’s where we went.
“We had $25.00 and a model T to travel
in. Oh, and LaVonne was pregnant.”
I shuddered.
“It wasn’t bad. We slept in the car and
ate as little as possible. We didn’t have
sense enough to worry. Anyway, worry
only stops you from getting where you
want to go. We enjoyed the trip!”
“Then came the trailer! Did you ever
live in a tent through a Colorado winter?
The trailer we lived in was the nearest
thing to it. No piped-in water. There was
a bucket under the sink and if we forgot
to empty it, and we forgot all of the time,
it overflowed and LaVonne had to mop
the floor. When the bed pulled down we
had to call signals to pass each other!
You had to keep pumping the stove if you
wanted it to cook, and the kerosene
heater kept the ceiling hot and the floor
icy.
“When LaVonne was about five months
along, she tripped over that darned bed
and fell against the corner of a low
cupboard. She was crying and moaning
and I thought for sure the baby was going
to come, but he didn’t, not that boy!
Artie waited his full time and kept his
mother in labor for 36 hours. Weighed
over eight pounds.
“Anyway, when she fell, I thought, this is
for the birds! I’m going to get a job and
take care of my wife and to heck with
being a pharmacist! I told LaVonne, but
she kept crying and saying, ‘No, no, no.
You’re going to finish college!’ So to
hush her up I agreed. Then the doctor
said she would be okay so we went on
working and studying and getting ready
for the baby.”
“LaVonne had a job?”
“Yes, in the library, and I worked in
Vetsville on the trash truck and on the
roads.”
“So you stuck to it and graduated, then
came back to Los Angeles. Did you go
right to work as a druggist?”
He shook his head.
“It wasn’t that easy. They raised the
requirements before I could take the
Board examination. I had to have a fifth
year!
“We used to kid about how they were
going to repossess the baby because he
wasn’t paid for and we had to start
reducing our loan from the University, so
I got a job as an apprentice pharmacist at
a store in Torrance and went to night
school at Southern Cal. I made $65.00 a
week. It just wasn’t enough and I asked
for a raise. The boss said ‘No,’ so I
quit.”
Art’s jaw set as he remembered, his eyes
seeing back to that time.
“Well, I finished my shift and went home
full of anger, expecting to explode to
LaVonne. She met me at the door, crying.
They had turned off our water, light and
gas!
“We looked at each other in silence for a
moment and knew we would have to do
something we had so far avoided—go to
a relative for help. LaVonne’s uncle
loaned us some money and pulled us out
of the hole.
“I got another job and continued night
school. My new job paid $75.00 a week
and after I finished school and passed
the Board exams it went up to $125.00.
Still it wasn’t enough. I was working
from 1:00 P.M. to 10:00 P.M. and we
were just barely making ends meet, so I
quit and went to work for Ciba
Pharmaceutical Products as a detail man
on salary plus commission.”
“How old were you then?”
“Just twenty-two, but that job helped me
to grow up. I couldn’t get mad at the
doctors if I wanted them to buy my
products, so I learned to control myself.
“I kept trying to think of ways to
increase my sales, and one day I
remembered how they show popcorn
falling all over the screen just before
intermission at the movies to make
people want to buy. Subliminal selling,
it’s called.
“Soon after that, during an interview
with a doctor, I said, ‘You know how it
is when you sit down in a barber chair
after a hard day’s work. Your neck
muscles are full of aching knots and your
body is tense. The barber begins to
massage your neck and a wonderful
relaxation steals over you. That’s the
way our tranquilizers make you feel.’ He
said he’d try them!”
“With that technique my sales began to
increase. I read all I could on the power
of suggestion and used what I learned. In
a nationwide contest I placed third and
won a lot of prizes.
“Then we began to save, a little at a
time, till we had $500. It seemed like a
fortune.
“I like people, all kinds of people, and
the Toastmaster’s Club offered me an
opportunity to make new friends, so I
joined. One of the members was a
contractor who built tract houses. He
asked me if I’d like to invest some
money in his project. We had that $500
lying in the bank. We hated to risk it, but
I figure you’ve got to take a chance now
and then, so I gave it to him.
“He sold that batch of houses and gave
me $1,000. Doubled our money! We put
the thousand into his next project and got
back $2,000.
“I was ready to give up the drug
business entirely and go into contracting,
but one noon at ‘Toastmasters’ the
speaker emphasized the importance of
doing the thing you know best.
“What did I know best? The drug
business. What had I been working
toward all these years? To own my own
store.
“That did it. I started looking and asking
around and I found this place.”
“No regrets?” I asked.
“The contractor went broke on his next
development. I got out just in time!
“I wanted this store the way a kid wants
Christmas! But the owner didn’t want to
sell to me! To him I was a poor risk, a
twenty-four-year-old unknown quantity. I
had to do some real subliminal selling
then! I kept painting a picture of how I
would display products and carry new
lines, etc. Finally he was convinced that
I really knew the drug business and we
came to terms. We put in our $2,000 plus
$3,000 borrowed from a relative, and
the store was ours.”
“And now you’re the prosperous owner
of one of the best drug stores in San
Pedro,” I said.
“Two,” said Art. “I’m building my
second store on the other side of town.”
He tried to sound modest but pride
colored his voice.
The door opened and a slender ash
blonde with enormous brown eyes stood
in the doorway.
“Oh, excuse me!” She started to back
out.
“Just a minute, honey,” Art turned to me.
“This is LaVonne. You really ought to be
interviewing her!”
I shook hands with the pretty girl I felt I
knew so well and complimented her on
the success she and Art had achieved.
“You have to know what you want and
then stick to it, no matter what,” said
LaVonne. “Abby said it in her column
this morning. You’ve gotta wanta!
You’ve gotta wanta so passionately that
nothing and no one can discourage you!”
“That about sums it up,” said Art.

LINCOLN’S KEY TO
SUCCESS
My dear Sir:
I have just reached home and found
your letter. If you are resolutely
determined to make a lawyer of yourself,
the thing is more than half done already.
It is but a small matter whether you read
with anybody or not. I did not read with
anyone. Get the books and read and
study them till you understand them in
their principal features, and that is the
main thing. It is of no consequence to be
in a large town while you are reading. I
read at New Salem, which never had
three hundred people living in it. The
books, and your capacity for
understanding them, are just the same in
all places.
Always bear in mind that your own
resolution to succeed is more important
than any other one thing.
A. Lincoln
The above letter was written to
Isham Reavis, a young lad who asked
Abraham Lincoln for advice. It was
written while the Great Emancipator
was in Springfield, Illinois, and before
he was elected the sixteenth President of
the United States. Lincoln called his
letter “Advice to a young boy who
aspires to become a lawyer.” If you have
read the letter and did not catch what he
terms the most important attribute to
becoming a success, then read it through
again.
Lincoln did not believe a man must
go to a large or even a small city to
become successful. He pointed out that
he began his climb to success in a little
town which never had more than three
hundred people living in it.
But of greater importance is
Lincoln’s key to success: In the last
paragraph of the letter, he admonishes
the young boy to always bear in mind
that “your own resolution to succeed is
more important than any other one
thing.”
For additional information about Napoleon Hill products
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