Name—Significance of a.
A poor man, the father of a family, was out of work and at his wits’ end how to procure bread for his starving children. A kind friend hearing of his distress handed him a check for £5, telling him to present it for payment at the local bank.
With a light heart he went out, check in hand. On his way to the bank, however, the thought flashed into his mind: “What have I done to deserve this £5? How can I lay claim to the money until I have in some way shown that I am worthy of it?”
The farther he goes the more unhappy he becomes. He looks at his threadbare clothes and much-worn boots, and says to himself, “What presumption of me to think that the cashier at the bank will give the money to such as I am.”
Thus dwelling upon his own unworthiness he grows more and more despondent, and when he reaches the bank he can hardly persuade himself to enter. Summoning up courage, however, he steps up to the counter and hands the check to the clerk.
Observe now what takes place. The thought of the man’s worthiness or unworthiness never enters the clerk’s head, nor does he regard for a moment the man’s woebegone appearance. What he looks at is the signature upon the check. He recognizes the name as that of one of the bank’s best customers; and because of that name he pays the money to the applicant without question.
Name—Whose are we writing?
Charles Dickens had a great friend, John Foster. One day when Dickens was signing a letter, his mind was on other things, and instead of signing his name he wrote his friend’s. This might have been taken for a forgery, but he explained that he was so constantly thinking of his friend, and getting his point of view, that without knowing it he had written his friend’s name.
William Osler, the author, did the same kind of thing. He had a friend, James Bovell, and if ever William was trying a new pen, he would find that almost without knowing, he had written all over the paper the name of James. Once he was leaving U.S.A. for a visit to England, where he was to give a lecture. He spent much time in preparation, and when he had finished writing it out, on looking at the title page, he found he had written “By James Bovell.” Quite unconsciously he had given his friend the credit of the work, because he was always thinking of him.
There was a girl who had a passion for scribbling her own name everywhere—inside, upstairs, downstairs, everywhere. After she had stayed at a certain house, the lady of the house had to go all over it trying to wash it out.
Whose name are we writing?
Need—Acknowledgment of.
In a factory where delicate fabrics were woven, when the threads at any time became tangled the operators were required to press a button and the superintendent would come and rectify things. On one occasion, however, though a boy had just a little while before pressed the button and received assistance, a man who was an old hand at the work thought he ‘knew how’ and could get along without the superintendent’s assistance. The threads became inextricably mixed and much damage ensued. To the superintendent he said, “I did my best.” To which he replied, “Doing your best is sending for me.”