“Visitors Welcome."
I was passing through Niagara Falls on the train, and I saw this sign on top of a large building:
THE HOME OF SHREDDED WHEAT. VISITORS WELCOME.
That is delightful. If I had been able to leave the train for an hour, how glad I should have been to accept that invitation! I am sure the factory was bright and clean in every corner. I am sure the machinery was whirling briskly, and I have no doubt that the faces of the operatives were all smiling. I am certain that I should have gone away with a still higher regard than the high regard I have already for that interesting breakfast food, shredded wheat.
In fact, I went away with a warmer spot for shredded wheat in my heart, even without visiting its establishment. Simply realizing that I was welcome there, that the managers courted inspection, that they had the latch-string out at all times, was enough to raise the whole concern in my estimation.
And that kind of notice has the same result when it is hung out upon a life. It is not put into so many words, of course, but it may be observed quite as plainly, nevertheless. It may be read in the frank eye, in the cordial manner, in the friendly salutation, in the very apparent willingness to talk about one's own affairs and interests, without boastfulness or exaggeration, and yet with pleasure and fullness.
No one likes “close-mouthed” people, people whose severity of countenance and gruffness of manner say to everyone, “You attend to your business, if you please, and I'll attend to mine." After all, the Christian likes to think of himself and others as brothers, members of one big family; and brothers know what one another is doing. It is not idle curiosity, it is good fellowship.
And, moreover, when a fellow evidently does not try to hide anything, it is proof that there is nothing in his life that ought to be hidden. His shredded wheat is wheat, and not baled hay.
The Manuscripts Converse.
A bundle of well-worn manuscripts lay in a pigeon-hole of an author's desk. One night they began to talk softly together.
“What do the editors say, brothers," said one, “when they read you, and send you back?"
“Chestnut!" sighed the Spring Poem.
“Cold and artificial!" groaned the Sonnet.
“Hackneyed!" hissed the Comic Sketch.
“Cribbed!" moaned the Practical Essay.
“Bosh!" whispered the Sentimental Lyric.
“Wordy!" confessed the Timely Article.
“Unreal!" quavered the Love Story.
“Preposterous!" exclaimed the Mystery Story.
“Alas!" said the first manuscript; “if only our author could hear what the editors say!"
But the author was sound asleep, and snoring.