Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1914-07-05

square-jawed woman shaking rug out OF
the upper window of frame house.
Il choose her, 1 said to Jesse. MAKE hes
cry
Jesse took one look at the woman'S face,
and then began, in those soft, appealing tones
of his which no one could resist, to curse me
and himself for ever having made such bet
But he was game.
have never heard such talk as he made
to that woman. He presented that set Of
books as the one sure stepping stone to the
presidency of the United States; he pictured
to the woman her sorrow when she should
see her boy wearing out the years of his
manhood in blacksmith shop because he
had been deprived of the educational adj
vantages of this great work, while the play
mates of his youth, whose mothers had
bought the set, rode haughtily by his shop
in limousines. Long before he was done the
woman was in tears at the picture; but she
did not sign the contract. Jesse couldn't
understand what was the matter. He was
working like tragedian before a packed
house; the sweat rolled down his cheeks.
Finally the woman, her tears still falling
thick, sobbed out her trouble.
Il want the books, Mr.. Harrington-you
don't know how much l want them-but-"
"But what?" demanded Jesse hoarselyo
thinking Of the ten.
"But-you say it's dollar a month";"
eyes, only dollar a month
II could make the payments all right now
but suppose something should happen in the
years to come? You see my boy is only
seven years old. 1t will be fourteen years
before he is twentyone."
When Jesse explained to her that the pay
ments were for one year only instead of four
teen, she was happier than almost any
/ ave
PUT Jesse is long since gone from the
- business, and most Of the giants of his
day have passed with him. The lure has
faded out of the game: advertising has
spoiled it,-that and other things. It's no
longer possible to sell -hundred-and-
ninety-dollar set of books for twenty-seven
fifty when, in magazine on his desk, the
customer has the publishers own advertise
ment offering the set for the same price.
Moreover, books are better made than they
used to be- They are worth the money, and
can be sold like anything else. There is no
longer any place for Jesse and me, who sold
a dollars worth made up of fifteen-cent
book and an eighty fve-cent talk. So Jesse
has passed out of the game-and l am about
to pass.
No one will shed tear at my going.
There will be no meeting in Carnegie Hall,
no banquet where distinguished eaters Will
mourn the passing of great figure from our
literary life. And yet l sometimes think
there ought to be; for 1, and my fellow
educators, have taught the American peo-
pie how to read. We have kept the love Of
the masters fresh in American homes
through the most thoroughly commercial
lied age that any nation has ever known.
Compared to me, any college president of
the past or present is an almost Insignificant
influence. l have educated nearly two hun
dred thousand people; have changed the
mental outlook of thousands of boys, and
opened the door of castles and sanctuaries
and enchanted countries to men and women
who, but for me, would never have known
that there was any world beyond their own
back fence. Lincoln's mother had six
books: they made him Lincoln Who knows
how many smaller Lincolns will be placed
to my credit on that original first edition of
which Saint Peter is the author and pub
Usher? When l think of my life in terms
like that, the sign mo Book Agents, Ped
oilers, or Beggars Allowed" burns in my soul
like hot iron.
Yet 1 presume that 1 have no real right
to complain. l have saved money. The
races, nor the late poker games, nor the