The Well-Equipped Runner.
An athlete set out to compete in a Marathon run, and, being very prudent and systematic, he provided himself with all that he might need. He slung on his back a dozen lemons to wet his mouth during the run, and a tin dipper that he might refresh himself at the wayside fountains. He also hung about him an extra pair of shoes for fear those he wore might give out, and a bottle of heart-stimulant in case he should faint, and a sweater lest he should stop while heated and thereby take cold. He also carried a box of ointment for sore muscles and a box of salve for possible blisters. He also bore a can of chocolate, which, being a very condensed food, would nourish him on the way. He carried in one hand a watch to measure his speed from point to point, and in the other a field-glass to note how many runners were near him.
Strange to say, after he had made these thorough preparations, and set out confident of success, he came in at the goal the very last of the large number of runners who started.
The Crippled Shears.
The shears used by a certain tailor lost one blade, which broke off short at the screw. Thereupon the tailor threw the instrument away, and obtained a new pair of shears for his work. But the crippled shears protested in a loud and angry voice:
"Why am I thus contemptuously discarded, after all these years of service? To be sure, I have lost one blade; but I still have the other, haven't I? Why don't you put me on half work, and give me half pay? It is outrageous, this tossing me on to the scrap-heap just because I have had the misfortune to lose one of my two blades."
But the tailor quietly snipped away with his new shears and did not seem even to have heard.
Moral: Many a worker, who allows himself to fall off in one respect, fails to realize that this loss may be the complete destruction of his usefulness, and not merely the diminution of it.
The Important Telephone.
The telephone on the editor's desk thought highly of itself. "I am in touch with the whole world," it bragged. "Take down my receiver, and you can communicate with New York or Chicago, even with Denver or San Francisco. You can learn the latest news. You can influence events across a continent. You can become a vital part of your country's history. In private matters, you can listen to the voices of your dear ones, though they are far away. You can send congratulations to marriages, can listen to the chatter of babies you have never seen, can hear the peal of funeral bells. In business affairs, you can buy and sell across a dozen States, you can purchase bonds in London, you can be a 'bull' or a 'bear' in Buenos Aires. I am the whole world at your elbow."
Just then the editor came in, with the janitor. "You may disconnect that desk telephone, Jenkins," said the editor, "and take it away. I've no use for it. It's only a nuisance, an interruption to my work. I've kept count for two months, and nine-tenths of my calls on the 'phone have been from people who merely wanted to get something out of me. You may dump it anywhere."
Moral: Before you brag of your efficiency, make sure that you are efficient in something that somebody really wants.
Who Painted the House?
"I am going to paint the house," said a big can of paint, waiting, already mixed, in the wood-shed.
"No, I am going to paint it," the paint-brush asserted, bristling with importance.
"You are, are you?" sneered the ladder, lying against the wall. "How far would either of you go without me?"
"Or without me to pay the bill?" said the check-book of the owner of the house, in a voice muffled by the pocket of the coat hanging on a nail.
Just then the painter, who had overheard these proud remarks, ventured to put in a word. "Perhaps I'd better take a vacation," said he, quietly. "I wonder if the house would be painted by the time I got back."
Moral: Even the most efficient of us is only a tool in the hands of the Infinite Worker.
Good Steel.
Ned got a new knife. It was big and smooth-handled and shiny. It had four blades, and they glittered in the sun. Ned exhibited it with pride wherever he went. He spent half his time whittling. He cut his finger, did it up in a rag, and was a very happy boy.
In the meantime Ned's old knife, dull and rusty, shut up in the dark of a bureau drawer, was in the depths of despair. "I am a castaway!" it moaned. "My usefulness is over, my joy is gone!"
But the new knife soon lost its sharpness. It would no longer cut even cedar. It would hardly cut paper. Ned sharpened it on the grindstone, but it would not keep its cutting edge. "It acts like tin," said Ned, disgusted, taking the knife to his father.
"It is little better than tin," said his father. "You have been cheated, my boy. But where's the knife I gave you last Christmas? Why, that was a Wheeler and Holt! No better steel is made than is in that knife."
That is how the old knife came out of the bureau drawer, and the new knife took its place in retirement. For it's good steel that makes a knife, and about the same may be said of a life
Unfitness Costs.
Of the 114,000 officers and men of the National Guard sent to Mexico or to the border, no fewer than 28,500 were found to be unfit for service, and had to be sent home. The direct cost of this travel, both ways, is estimated at $5,540,000, while the clothing given these men, with other expenditures upon them, brings the total cost of their unfitness up to $2,000,000. A thorough examination of the men before they were sent out would have saved this vast sum, while, of course, a properly maintained National Guard would not allow this unfit material to remain a part of its organization. It was a sad exhibition of national unpreparedness for action.
Everywhere among men, in all enterprises and among all classes of workers, the cost of unfitness is equally astounding. The editor of System urges a national movement for teaching efficient business management to the inefficient, the efficient business men themselves to be the teachers. "But would not these ablest workers wish to keep to themselves the secrets of their efficiency?" it is asked. "No," answers the editor of System, "because everywhere the truth is recognized that efficiency anywhere helps all, while inefficiency anywhere hurts all." The cost of unfitness does not fall wholly upon the unfit; it lies with especial heaviness upon the fit.
A distressingly large part of the world's work is done by a few, and it is the part of highest wisdom to get it done by the many. In all fields of effort, and especially in the religious field, the province of highest effort, it is essential for real success that the workers shall all become fit. Twenty-five per cent of unfitness—and the church surely exhibits that lamentable percentage—means one hundred per cent of hindrance and comparative failure. We are all our brothers' keepers.
Making Heads Save Heads.
The Spanish way of firing from a trench is to hold the rifle high in the air, pointing it vaguely in the direction of the enemy, and thus let drive. Of course the enemy are not in serious danger from this mode of shooting. But, nevertheless, in the Great War, the British army largely adopted that very manner of firing, and with good success. The difference is, however, that the British used periscopes, arrangements of mirrors which enable the shooter down below to see the object at which he is shooting and aim his rifle with deadly effect. And if any part of himself is hit, it is not his head but his hands.
Thus always the wise man will make his head save his head; he will make it save his hands also, as far as he can. Perhaps before long the modern soldier will use steel gloves in his deadly work.
The man who labors in a poorly ventilated room when he might easily open a window and let in a flood of pure air is failing to use his head to save his head. His brain grows muddled, his nervous system breaks down, he drops into an early grave, all because he refused to use a little common sense about his work.
The man who works ten years at a stretch, day after day, Sundays included; the man who plays incessantly and never works at all; the man who plunges into speculation in jealous envy of some other fool who has chanced to be lucky for the moment; the man who begins to drink on the plea that his associates do, and that not to do it would hurt him in business—all of these are failing to use their heads to save their heads. They are using their rifles, they are living their lives, they are keeping up a bold front, but they are exposing themselves at every shot, and before long the keen-eyed, sure, and unwearied sharpshooter, Death, will pick them off.
The periscope mode of warfare may not be picturesque, but it commends itself to every soldier that wants to be effective in the fight.
That Useful Rubber Stamp.
Gutenberg, or Faust, or whoever it was that invented the art of printing, would have accomplished wonders for the human race if he had gone no farther than the hand stamp, and the printing-press had never appeared. This primitive hand stamp is still in use in a multitude of ways. There is hardly an office of any kind in which it is not employed.
Watch the baggage-master making out the check for your trunk. In front of him is a wall full of hooks—scores and scores of them, and on every hook a rubber stamp. Swiftly and accurately he snatches down one after the other, slaps it on the ink-pad and then on the ticket, folds up the latter and hands it to you, having accomplished in a few seconds a large amount of work. Look at your check, and you will see stamped upon it not only the name of the town to which your trunk is to go, but also the road it is to take, via the B. G. and St. X., the L. M. R., the A. B. C. and D., the P. F. Short Line, and perhaps other roads besides. To write all this out would have occupied that busy baggage-master several minutes. It would have doubled his day's work or required the doubling of the force of workers. And what is true of the baggage-room is true of almost every business office in the world. There are few time-savers and labor-savers like a rubber stamp.
Now what I want to learn is the use of the rubber-stamp principle in my life.
By the rubber-stamp principle I mean the power of doing automatically, or almost automatically, whatever can be done in that way.
Not everything, of course, can be so done. Often a very little can be done automatically. Most matters need the whole mind upon them, with all its faculties fully alert. But whatever can be done automatically is so much clear gain.
It is not laziness; it is economy. It is not a cheap way of doing things, but it is actually a better and more accurate way. The less you need to employ your brain in the non-essentials,—for instance, the letters forming the initials of those railroads marked on your trunk check,—the more of your brain you have left to employ on the essentials.
Here is the great advantage of doing the same thing always in the same way. Dress in the same way, and dressing becomes an automatic process. Take up your work, however varied its items, in the same order. If you are a housewife, sweep your rooms in the same order, handle utensils and ingredients in the same order, put your tools always in the same place—in short, whatever you have to do often, do it in a uniform way. Thus you will be forming—not ruts, for ruts are hindering grooves—but iron rails on which the wheels of your life will roll smoothly and swiftly to the goal you have in view. There is enough in every life that must be written out with original and painstaking care. Whenever you can, use a rubber stamp.
Goose-Quill Folks.
He was a census man. A census man of all men should be thoroughly abreast of the times. But how do you think this census man was equipped for his work? He had his blank book under his arm, a steel pen carried in his hand, and around his neck was hung a ten-cent bottle of ink with an ordinary cork! What a messenger for Uncle Sam!
As the census man seated himself in the parlor, opened his book, uncorked his bottle of ink, and carefully but precariously balanced it upon his book to the peril of my carpet, and began his series of questions, I wanted to interrupt him with some questions of my own. I wanted to say: "My dear sir, did you—honestly—did you ever hear of a fountain-pen? Did you ever make trial of one? Do you know that in that little barrel of hard rubber with its soft rubber bulb and its golden apex the spirit of this twentieth century expresses itself? It is the spirit of efficiency, Mr. Census Man; do you know that? It means the maximum of result with the minimum of effort, Mr. Census Man; do you realize that? Do you realize how much time you waste in the aggregate every day with dipping your pen into that narrow-necked bottle of yours? And time is money, Mr. Census Man; have you ever heard that saying? Time is also life, for if you had the time you are wasting, you might be doing something worthwhile in it; might you not? Now won't you throw away that old relic of the goose-quill days and come down into this century in which you are taking a census?" Those are the questions I should have liked to ask him.
But it would have done no good. A man may be converted from almost anything else sooner than from old fogyism
Can You See?
I once noticed an account of a blind electrician, Mr. S. Ferris, of Swindon, England. He is totally sightless, but he takes entire charge of engine and dynamos, and has installed complete electric-light equipment’s in many houses. He never uses a walking-stick, but judges the distance and direction of surrounding objects by the echo of his own footsteps.
In the same number of the paper I read an account of two blind farmers, Elijah and William Bunnell, of Mayetta, Kan. They carry on their farm alone, chopping wood, cooking, caring for the stock; and they go everywhere singing and whistling cheerfully.
The day before, in the same paper, I read about a blind bicycler, Stephen Mellinger, of Denver, Penn., who also works on a farm, sowing harvesting, milking, harnessing, and driving spirited horses at full speed, turning out for others, and rounding sharp corners without pulling up. Moreover, he is a zealous bicycler, and rides miles from home, and as rapidly as if possessed of complete vision.
Well, when I read such accounts, as I often do, they make me ashamed of my eyes. How much better off I am than these unfortunates, and how little superior in accomplishment!
Why, if those blind men can do what they do without eyes, I, having eyes, ought by this time to be out of sight of my present achievements!
Alas, alas, for half-used tools!
Utility Tests.
A regular stock automobile of a certain make—let us call it the Reliable—was sent out on the road. It had a full load of passengers, and between 10 A. M. and dinner-time it covered 199 miles. It went through interesting sections of Boston and its suburbs, the road being laid out for sightseeing. Four stops were made, and on three of them the motor was stopped, chiefly to show off the self-starter. At the end of the trip only eight gallons of gasoline were needed to fill the gasoline tank to overflowing, thus proving that the trip was made on an average of a little more than twenty-five miles to a gallon. No mechanical difficulty was experienced, and the tires were not touched. It was a test of general usefulness, and the Reliable certainly came out with flying colors.
That is what counts in an automobile or a man—average conditions, no special preparation, good speed, long distance, low fuel consumption—that is, in a man, little waste of power. This is what is meant by efficiency. This is why so much is said and thought about efficiency just now. It is not what we can do in exhibitions with racing machines and when we speed up regardless of racking and cost. It is what we can do when taken out Monday on a business trip, and Tuesday on another, and Wednesday on a third. It is what we can do in the snow and rain and over the ice. It is what we can do in hot weather and below zero. It is what we accomplish day after day, month after month, year in and year out.
The car and the man that stand utility tests will win their following and make the permanent successes.
Six-O'clock Men.
The people of Suffolk County, England, are in the habit of speaking of "six-o'clock folk." The expression is puzzling to those that are not to the manor born, and an explanation has to be obtained. The words are found to mean "upright folk," people that are straight up and down, as are the hands of a clock at six.
It is good to live in a community of six-o'clock folk. They are dependable people. They are not one thing to-day and a different thing tomorrow. They can be trusted in the dark as well as in the light. The "straight" people are pleasant to live with as well as to look at.
But there is another possible meaning for "six-o'clock men." It may mean men that get up at six o'clock, early-rising men, men of energy. To be sure, six o'clock is not a particularly early hour for rising. And yet, if a man gets up regularly at six winter and summer, he does fairly well, and he may be counted upon to keep the wolf from the door and make a decent way in the world. That sort of folk is a good sort to live with.
And I think of still another possible interpretation of "six o'clock men." Six o'clock is the half-way time. It is neither high noon nor midnight, but just half-way between. And six-o'clock people may be said to be those comfortable, mediocre men that are not geniuses, and they know it, nor dullards, and they know that, but simply good average people, sensible, plodding, contented, and efficient. And that kind is a good kind to live with.
Commend me, therefore, to six-o'clock men. They will not "strike twelve" even once in their lives, but they are a delightful set of people just the same.
The Efficiency Pin.
A strong worker was sawing wood, when suddenly his saw collapsed. The wooden frame fell to the ground in three pieces, together with the steel crosspiece and the saw blade. The sawyer wasted no time, but began peering about on the ground amid the sawdust. His search was at last rewarded by finding a steel pin, about an inch long. This, when passed through holes in the saw blade and the wooden frame, held the whole together, and the work proceeded briskly. The saw and the sawyer depended for efficiency upon that inch of metal. Indeed, efficiency in any task is likely to depend upon some little, unnoticed factor, like politeness, or promptness, or neatness, or health.
One-Man Jobs.
The "solo street cars" are finding favor in all parts of the country. Each car requires only one man to operate it; he is both driver and conductor. He opens and closes the door, makes change, registers the fares, starts and stops the car, sands the rails, rings the bell, and attends to the trolley. New devices render the plan even safer than the old method, and, of course, it is a great advance in economy and so is directly adapted to the times. There are circumstances in which the more persons set to work, the better; indeed, this is always the case, provided the work of each man is real work and needed work. But wherever, in a business establishment, on a church committee, in a Sunday-school, or in a home, two persons are busied with what one person could do as well or better, poor management is indicated, and confusion and inefficiency result. To each man his task, with all the help he needs from others, and no more.