Too Much Brenner.
No one blames Mr. Victor D. Bernner for wanting to get the credit for the design of the Lincoln cents. It is a noble design and does credit to him. Former designers of our coins had immortalized themselves by placing their initials somewhere upon their work-though only the initial in each case of the last name; why should not Mr. Brenner do the same?
But the trouble was that he made too much of his privilege. He did not use merely a "B," but he put it "V. D. B." And he did not hide the initials away in some inconspicuous place and make them so small that they could be seen only with a magnifying glass, but he put them right where one could not help seeing them and he made them almost as big as "In God we trust." It was a plain case of too much Brenner.
People objected to it at once. The Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Mac-Veagh, was beset with criticisms. He saw the point at once and said that the change should be made. New dies were prepared and new cents were issued bearing only "B," very small, and neatly tucked away out of sight. It is there, but you have to look for it. As a result of this decision, the "V. D. B." Lincoln pennies have become very much sought after for collections.
The whole is a neat little sermon on the text, "Keep in the background of your work." People, my brethren, are quite willing to give you the credit for the fine things you do, but they do not want to be reminded of you all the time. The singer's name may be on the program, but he must not sing his own praises. The architect's name may be in the corner-stone, but the whole vast cathedral is on top of it holding it down. The world does not require that work shall be anonymous, but it is well pleased when it is modest.
The Catbird.
The birds held a conference to select one among their number as the sweetest singer. The owl was made judge, because he looked so wise and was a good listener. He heard the song-sparrow. "Your song is very sweet," he said, "but its range is too limited." He said the same to the bluebird, to the Maryland yellowthroat, and the oven-bird. "Your song is too harsh," was the verdict for the towhee bunting. "Your song is too jerky," he said to the robin; "and yours too shrill," he objected to the oriole. At last the catbird came forward with a confident air, and poured forth a melody which was a medley of the songs of all the other birds. "Very clever," said the owl, "but those are not your own songs. Your own song is a mew, and the cat-squeak runs through all your brilliant imitations." The conference was about to break up without, result when the owl proposed an adjournment to the depths of the woods. There they heard the hermit-thrush, and the entire assembly, owl and all, declared with one voice, "That is the sweetest singer." So the bird that took the palm was not even a candidate.
The catbird added the hermit-thrush's song to his repertoire, but he fooled no one.