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- ARG he Men Who “Had Money but Lost It” ¥ RN AWS ) T AW | & : By Orison Swett Marden. B ol iy Ll Y > PROMINENT New York lawyer of wide experience says " { { that, in his opinion, ninety-nine out of ~every hundred of : thoze who make money or inherit it, loge it, sooner or later. How many thonsands of good, honest men and women there are in this country who have worked very hard and all sorts of sacrifices of comfort and luxury in order to lay § f ur something for the future, and yet have reached middle P Qeerl) lifc or later without having anything to show for it; many of them, indeed, finding themselves without a home or any probability of getting one, without property or a cent of money laid by for sickness, for the Ipevitable emergency, or for their declining years! For the sake of your home, for the protection of hard earnings, for your peace, of mind, your self-respect, your self-confidence whatever elde you do, do not neglect a good, solid business training, and get it as early in life as possible, It will save you from many a fall, from a thousand embarrassments, and, perhaps, from the humiliation of being compelled to face your wife and children and confess that you have been a failure. It may £ave you from the mortification of having to move from a gocd home to a poor one, of see ing your property slip out of your hands, and of having to acknowledge your weakness and your lack of foresight and thoughtfulness, or your being made the dupe of sharpers. Many men who once had good stores of their own, are working as clerks, floorwalkers, or superintendents of departments in cther people’s stores, just because they risked and lost everything in some venture. As they now have others depending on them, they do not dare to take the ricks which they took in young manhood, and go they struggle along in mediocre positions, still mocked with ambitions which, they have no chance to gratify, Thongands of pecple who were onee in easy circumstances are living in poverty and wretchedness today because they failed to put an understanding or an agieement in writing, or to do business in a business way, Families have been turned out of house and home, penniless, because they trusted to a relative or a friend to “do what was right” by them, without making a hard and fast, practical business arrangement with him. It does not matter how honest people are, they forget, and it is so easy for misunderstondings to arise that it is never safe to leave anything of im portance to a mere statement. Reduce it to writing. It ccsts but little, in time or money, and when all parties interested are agreed, that is the best time to formulate the agreement in exact terms. This will often save lawsuits, bitterness, and alienations, How many friendships have been broken by not putting understandings in writing. Thousands of cases are in the courts to day because agreements were not put in writing. A large part of lawyers’ in comes is derived from the same source. Business talent is as rare as a talent for mathematics. We find boys and girls turned out of schooi and college full of theories, and of all sorts of knowledge or smatterings of knowledge, but without auility to protect them selves from human thieves who are trying to get something for nothing. No girl or boy should be allowed to graduate, especially from any of the higher institutions, without heing well grounded in practical business methods. Parents who send their children out in life, without seeing that they are well versed in ordinary business principles, do them an incalculable injustice, -~Juccess Magazine. Good and Bad Features 1 0 s OF | 1 ' ] nternational Marriages T R N T I e LTS 3 The Rev. Dr. R. §. MacArthur. i Wik Nm BCENT newspaper reports of married troubles between smmmseeecen g titled foreigners and American women who have become their wives fill the hearts of all true Americans with mingled pity :and humiliation, That some of these marriages are most o happy is quite certain; some of them, without the slightest o doubt, are true love matches. There is also political, finan e =B clal, and. social gain at times in these international mar- M“,’; rlages. Some American women have exercised much political . influence in Great Britain and in other countries beyond the sea, They have carried American democratic ideas with them into ancient balaces; they have helped shape policies of political parties, and have done much toward the Americanization of Great Britain. They have really been, in a number of cases, the power behind the political thrones. At the great Durbar in India, an American woman, Lady Curzon, filled a place of power and honor second only to that filled by the Queen of Great Britain. She honored America and was a benediction to India and to the British Empire at large. Unfortunately, there are other types of women who have coniracted international matches., Mrs, Hammersley, at whose mirriage I refused to officiate. was the first American woman to carry great wealth with her to England when she became the wife of the Duke of Marlborough. Several other women since have given their husbands much wealth in return for the little they have received. Some American women have paid an enormously high price for their titles, There is a type of Americans fonder of titles than are the people of the old world. Boasting of their democratic ideas, they will do more to secure a foreign title than RKuropeans would do. What is the price these American women and their ambitious fathers and mothers are willing to pay for titles? . Some time ago during a famine in Russia we read that many poor peasants sold their daughters with which to buy bread. This announcement shocked the civilized, world. ‘American parents have done more and worse than did. these starving peasants. American girls have sold their woman hood, their country, their language, and their religion for husbands who are peculiarly contemptible cads and altogether worthless, although having an clent titles, . That it is a matter of sale and purchase cannot be doubted, These abominable transactions bring the blush to the cheek of every honorable American man and woman. Recent events in England and France are a re proach to noble manhood and true womanhood on both sides of the sea. Some of these titled foreigners deserve and receive the contempt of all true American men and women.. How can these women so far forget a worthy and. religions American ancestry as to forswear the religion of their fathers and the country of their own birth? \ 370 Vil b i A Friendly Deadlock % AR AR S D SAR f Ey J. O. Fagan. d AP AN 8 e HEN people are killed, when property is wrecked, we have nothing to say. It is for the management to figure out rea- W gons and remedies. Of course, as individuals, we are in | terested and sorry when accidents happen, but personally |E— we do not bestir ourselves, nor do we call upon our organiza ) o tions to bestir themselves in the matter. We simply stand pat on our rights, If a prominent railroad man is ques tioned .on the subject of railroad accidents, he will shrug his shoulders and say, “Human nature.’’ So far as he is con cerned, railroad men are to be protected, not criticized. If you turn to the management your errand will be equally fruitless. The superintendent will have little to say. Generally speaking, he has no fault to find with the men, and the men have little fault to find with him. This seems to be a tacit under standing in the interests of harmony. It being impossible to move without treading on somebody’s toes, by all nieans let us remain motionless. As for the public interests, they must shift for themselves. Consequently, in place of earnest co-operation in the interests of efficiency and improved service, there is something in the nature of a friendly deadlock between men and “€wpßgement.—The Atlantic. : THE OLD SOUTH ORCHARD. R AAPPPRA RANUL R ATV AR By L. M. 'M:)NTQOMEP.Y. ! Tt is now more than seventy years since it had its beginning, when grandfather brought his bride home. Before the wedding he had fenced fig the big south meadow that sloped ! the sni; it was the finest, most fer tile field on the farm and the nelgh bors told young Abraham King that he would raise many a crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham King smiled, and, being a man of few words, said nothing, but in his mind he had‘a vigion of the years to be, and in that vision he saw, not rippling acres of harvest gold, but great leaty avenues of wide-spreading trees, laden with fruit to gladden the eyes of children and grandchildren yet un born. It was a vision to davelop slowly into fulfillment. Grandfather King was in no hurry. He did Wot set his whole orchard out at once, tfi; he wished it to grow with his life m,d history and be bound up with all ot good and joy that came to the house hold he had founded. So on the morning after he had brought hifi young wife home they went together to the south meadow and planted their bridal trees. These two trees were yet living when we of the third generation were born, and every spring bedecked themselves in blos som as delicately tinted as Elizabe{h King's face when she walked through the old south meadow in the morn of her life and love. ¥ o e That was the beginning of the fa mous King orchard. When a 33 was born to Abraham and Elizabe h a tree was planted in the orchard%or him. They had ten echildren in Q, and each child had its birthtree. Ev ery family festival was commemo‘?t ed in like fashion, and every beloved visitor who spent a night under their roof was expected to plant a tree i the orchard. So it came to pass fh*r‘ every tree in it was a fair green mon ument to some love or delight of the past years. i We, the grandchildren of Abrabam and Elizabeth, were born into this heritage. The orchard was old when we came to know it, and, for us, \ufi1 one of the things that must have ex isted forever, like the sky and the river and the stars. We could not think of a world without the old south orchard. Each grandchild—and there were many of us, both on the homestead where father lived and scattered abroad in far lands—had its tree there, set out by grandfather) when the news of its birth was ah-| nounced to him. ¥ e In our day there was a high stone wall around it instead of grandfath er's split rail fence. Our uncles a‘,_f father had built the wall in their. boyhood, so that it was old enough to be beautiful with moss, and gretn things growing out of its crevices, violets purpling at its base in early spring days, and goldenrod and asters making a September glory in its cor ners, Grandmother, as long as she was able, liked to go through the orchard with us, down to the farther gate. where she never omitted to kiss us all good-bye, even if we were to be gone for no more than an hour. She would wait at the gate, her sweet face all aglow, until we were'out of sight; then she would visit Uncle Stephen’s avenue hefore going back to the house. “Uncle Stephen's avenue,” as we always called it, was a double row of apple trees running down the western side of the orchard—a great green bowery arcade it was. To walk through it in blossom time was some thing not to be forgotten. It realized for us our most extravagant dreams of fairyland wherein we wandered under the gorgeous arches of king'sf palaces over pavements of pearl and emerald. Heaven, we thought, must surely be an endless succession of Uncle Stephen’s avenues in blossom that never faded. : Uncle Stephen was that first-born whose birthtree stood nearest to the two gnarled old patriarchs in the cen tre of the orchard. Father, who was one of the youngest members of the family, had but one remembrance of him-—as a handsome youth of eigh teen home from a long sea voyage, with all the glamor of faraway lands and southern seas about him. In Uncle Stephen the blood of a seafar ing race claimed its own. He had none of grandfather’s abiding love of woods and meadows and the kindly ways of the warm red earth; to sea he must go, despite the fears and pleadings of the reluctant mother, and it was from the sea he came to set out his avenue in the south orchard with trees brought from his voyage. ; Then he sailed away again, and the ship was never heard of more. The gray first came in grandmother's brown hair in those months of wait ing. Then, for the first time in its lite, the old orchard heard the sound of weeping and was consecrated by a SOITow. £ ! ‘To us children Uncle Stephen was only a name, but a name to conjure with. We never wearied of speculat ing on his fate and harrowing our small souls in fearful imaginations concerning his last moments, He played an important part in many of our games and make-believes; he was always the good fairy who appeared mysteriously in the nick of time and rescued us from all difficulties. He was all the more delightful in that he never grew old like our other uncles. For us he was always the curly-headed youngster, with the laughing blue eyes, of the framed daguerreotype hanging up in grand mother's room. If he had ever come back in reality we would have ex pected him to look just like that. We all, I think, cherished a secret heifef that he was yet living—probably on a desert island—and would some day return home, glittering with the gold znd jewels of the pirate hoard Ais covered on the said island. 'To this day we middle-aged men and wemen who were the children of that old south orchard do not say “when my ‘ship comes in,” but “when Uncle Stephen comes home.” There was another spot in the orchard which had a great attraction for us, albeit mingled with something of awe and fear. This was “Aunt Una’s seat,” a bench of mossy stone glabs arched over by a couple of gnaried pear trees and grown thickly about with grasses and violets. We never cared to play there—it would have seemed like desecration, but in our quiet moods we sought the old stone bench to dream.™ Aunt Una mingled in those dreams, but not after the fashion of Uncle Stephen, for there was no doubt concerning her fate. She had died thirty years before, on her twentieth birthday. We children heard much of Aunt Una, for she was one of those people who are not soon forgoiten, whose personality seems to haunt the scenes of their lives long after they have gone hence. She had been very beau tiful, with a strange moonlight beau ty of white skin and night-black eyes and hair, foreign to the fair, rosy w style of loveliness; a dreamy, S tual girl, one of those souls who have no real abiding place in this world and only tarry for a brief while. She had been gifted with the power of expression, and a sort of journal she had writien was one of fifi:dmother's treasures. She some times read portions of it to us, and s 0 we seemed to make a very real ac quaintance with Aunt Una. The book contained verses that appeared quite wonderful to us—indeed, I think even vet that they were wonderful—and bits descriptive of the orchard, blent with a girl’s dreams and longings. Her phrases lingered in our memories and the whole orchard seemed full of her. DBesides, there was a bit of her romance connected with it. Aunt Una had had a lover. This man was still living; he was little more than fifty, but we thought him ”5 . 9 A Few Suggestive Don'ts. Don'’t be afraid to think before you act. : Don’t be afraid to use your time to advantage. It is given you for that purpose: 4 i il e Don’t be afraid of imitators. Originality always bears a trade mark. . Don’t be afraid to risk. The great successes are born of chance. : Don’t be afraid to make your goods known. Don't be afraid to admit it when you are in the wrong. Don't be afraid to obey. A man must learn to obey before he may hope to command. . Don’t be afraid of experience. He is the best teacher. ‘Don’t be afraid of pleasure. It is necessary for good work. Don’t be alraid of censure. We all need toning down as well as toning up. : Don’t be afraid of rivals, Things may be crowded below but there is always room on top. Don’t be afraid to fight against odds. Most things worth having are hard to get. Don’t be afraid to be polite at all times and under all circum stances. It is no disgrace to be called a gentlemau. Don’t be afraid of rebuffs. This may be your employer’s method of trying your grit. Don't be afraid to trust your boss. Confidence is a necessary part of success. Don't be afraid of overtaxing your strength. Work kills but few people.—The Bankazine. very old because of his snow-white hair. He had never married, and lived some distance away. Every June, on Aunt Una's bhirthday, he made a pilgrimage to the old orchard to see her tree, all ablow with never failing blossoms, and sit on her bench. At such times we children were not allowed to go into the orchard, but we sometimes peeped over the wall and saw him sitting there, a melancholy, lonely figure. It gave us, I think, a deep and lasting sense of the beauty and strength of love which could thus outlive time and death. We were too young then to understand its full beauty. The romance of it appealed more strongly to us; we girls had our favorite dream of dying young and having our lovers come to visit our trees thirty years after. But the orchard had happier mem ories, There had been a wedding in it for one thing—long before we were born. It was that of Aunt Iris, who had been a celebrated beauty. She was married in th¢ orchard under the apple blossoms of June. We never tired of hearing grangmother tell of it. We had heard the story so often that we could picture it almost as plainly as grandmother lherself—the lanes of white, fragrant trees, the gay dresses of the guests, the beautiful bride in her white silk dress and old lace veil. It was a favorite game with us to enact it all over, and so coveted ‘was the honor of playing the bride's part that it had to be setiled by lot. Aunt Iris' pear tree, planted by the ibride herself, after the ceremony, was iln our time a huge old tree just with in the entrance gate. The most de llicious pears that I have ever eaten grew on it, There are no such pears nowadays. I suppose they had a cata logue name, but the old south orchard had a nomenclature all its own, and we knew them as “Aunt Iris’ pears.” There were many plum trees in the orchard, as well as cherries—great luscious ox-hearts and a sweet white kind—pears and quinces, but of course more of apple trees tkan of any other kind. Uncle Bob's tree was our favorite, because it bore a delic ious, juicy, yellow apple with a streak of red on one side. There were two big trees—the twins’' trees—which were given over to us entirely, be cause nobody except children could eat their big, green, dead-sweet ap ples. And there was a seedling tree which had come up unbidden in a sunny corner, the fruit of which we used when our games called for a “trial by ordeal.” The apples of it were the sourest that ever grew; h#=®, biiter, unpalatable. The “or deal” consisted in eating one of them in large bites without making a single grimace! Tew of us ever passed it, but there was one who never failed —our little French cousin, Laure. She could munch those dreadful ap ples without so much as a change of expression on her little dark, elfin face. But then, Laure could do any thing she attempted. We could never “stump” her, as our juvenile slang expressed it. Every season brought new beauties to the old orchard. It would have been hard to say when we loved it best. In spring it was a rare spot; the grass would be green there when everywhere else was only sere brown sod; the trees were in leaf and bud a full week earlier there than in other orchards. Summer brought ripe lux uriance of growth. Long ago grand mother had sown a little plot with caraway just inside the gate and it had spread half over the orchard. In July, when it came into blossom, the long arcades were white with its billowy waves that swayed and foamed in the moonshine of summer eves like seas of silver. One day a three-year-old baby wandered into the caraway thicket that met over her head, lay down in it, and went to sleep. When she was missed, great was the consternation in the house of King. Everybody turned out to gsearch, distracted by direful possi bilities of well and river, Search as they might they could not find her, It was sunset, with a mother in hys terics, before an answering gurgle came from the caraway in response to franctic calls. Father plunged over the stone wall and into the caraway where he came upon a rosy sleep warm baby curled up in a nest of her own fasihoning and very loath to leave it. Autumn was, I think, the time we loved best, for then came the apple picking. What fun it was! The boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down until we girls cried for mercy, The days were crisp and mel- low, with warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, mingled with the woodsy odors of the withering leaves. The hens and turkeys prowled about picking at windfalls, and our pet Kkit tens made mad rushes at each other among the leaves. Then came winter, when the orchard was heaped with drifts. It was a wonderful place on moonlit nights, when the snowy arcades shone like magic avenues of ivory and pearl and the bare trees cast fairy-like trac eries- over them. Uncle Stephen’s avenue was a fine place for coasting, and when a thaw came, followed by a frost, we held high carnival there. Any history of the old south orchard would be incomplete if it failed to mention the “King Bubble.” This was a spring of peculiarly sweet, pure water which gurgled up in the southwest corner at the foot of a gentle slope. Grandfather had rimmed it round with a circle of hewn stones, and in this basin the water brimmed up like a great amber bub ble until it found its way through ferns and mosses to the brook below. In our games the King Bubble played the part of every famous fount in song and story of which we had ever read—especially the well of Urda and Ponce de Leon's fountain of youth, On summer days, tired and warm, we would fling ourselves down on its fern-fringed brink and drink deep draughts from an old blue china cup which always sat on a little stone shelf below the brim and never chanced to be broken despite the doz ens of careless little hands that seized it. To-day weary men and women all over the world think often of that spring and long for a cup of its matchless water. Near the spring was a huge granite bowlder as high as a man's head, straight and smooth in front, but hol lowed out into natural steps behind. It also played an important part in all our games, being fortified castle, In dian ambush, throne, pulpit or con cert platform as occasion required. A certain gray-haired minister, famous in two continents for eloquence and scholarly attainments, preached his first sermon at the age of ten from that old gray bowlder, and a woman whose voice has delighted thousands sang her earliest madrigals there. “If'you’re a King, you sing,” was a countryside proverb in those davs, and certainly if was true of all the descendants of grandfather and grandmother. We all sang more or less, although none could equal Laure, and among the dearest mem ories of the old south orthard are those of the long, mellow twilights of summer Sundays, when old and young assembled in the orchard and sang hymns, grandfather beating time. How clearly the whole scene comes out on the wall of memory’s picture gallery — grandfather and grand nmother, father and mother, sitting on Aunt Una’s bench, while we children, with all Uncle George's brood from the next farm, sat on the grass around them. Two voices scund out for me above all the others—l Laure’s glorious and silvery, grandmother’s sweet, quavering, tremulous. Dear old Grandmother King! How much she enjoyed those summer evenings of song! Grandmother and grandfather used to walk much in the orchard on fine evenings, hand in hand, lovers still, lingering in Uncle Stephen’s arcade or at Aunt Una’'s seat. Their devo tion to each other was beautiful to see. We children never thought it a sad or unlovely thing to grow old with so fair an example before us. One summer grandmother grew very frail and could not walk in the orchard. Yet grandfather was the first to go; they found him sitting in his armchair on one summer after noon, a smile on his fine old face and the sunshine making a glory of hig white hair. Grandmother called him by name, but for the first time he failed to answer her. They ecarried Grandfather King through the old orchard on his last journey, It had been his wish. Chil dren and grandchildren walked be hind him under boughs laden with the mellow fruit of trees his hands had planted. The next June Grand mother King was carried to him over the same way—the bride going once more to her bridegroom under the glory of their bridal trees. I visited the orchard not long ago on a mellow afternoon. It did not seem much changed., Most of the old trees were standing; grandfather’s and grandmother’s were gone, but their places were fllled with two flourishing young trees planted when the homestead boy had brought his bride home. Aunt Una’s seat was there and TUncle Stephen’s avenue; the King Bubble was as clear and fiiparkling as of yore—truly, it was a fountain of youth, for it never grew old. And at the big granite bowlder children were playing “Ivanhoe” and besieging it valiantly with arrows and popguns. My best.wish for them w%a, that in the years to come the o orchard might hold for them as many sweet and enduring memories as it held for me.—From the Outing Mage azine. WORDS GF WISDOM. Cross bearing by proxy will not win crowns. In order to be humble one need not be servile, Infant hands can take a firm hold on heartstrings. Time is money, but the landlord will not accept it. To-morrow’s industry will not bal ance to-day’s indolence. : Even if you can not toot a horn you can follow the reform band. The pulpit would profit by looking at it from the pewpoint once in a while. The more men you lift up the fewer there are left to drag you down. Heaven is a gift that must be ac cepted with clean hands and clean heart. False teeth do not ache, but that is about the only good thing to be said of them. Widow’s weeds too carefully cul tivated are the soonest to go to seed and disappear. Have you ever noticed that when a man takes himself too seriously he is generally a joke? There was something wrong about the good time of yesterday that pro duced to-day’s headache. We don’t think much of a man who has a large social correspon dence and keeps up with it. It will take something more than the fear of microbes and germs to put a stop to the kissing habit. - We never worry about the spirit ual welfare of the man who always sprinkles ashes on his icy sidewalk. —From ‘“Brain Leaks,” in the Com moner, Jefferson’s Ten Rules, Never put off until to-morrow what you can do to-day. Never trouble another for what you can do- yourself. Never spend your money before you have made it. Never buy what you don’t want be cause it is cheap. : Pride costs more than hunger, thirst and cold. We seldom regrét of having eaten too little. Nothing is troublesome that we do willingly. How much pain the evils that have never happened have cost us. Take things always by the smooth handle. When angry, count ten before you speak; when very angry, count one hundred.