If we can do so much better than those we criticise, why, in the name of heaven and suffering humanity, do we not go ahead and do it? Let us do our best regardless of our own infirmities and weakness and the consequent criticisms of others.

So I want to radiate to the needy and unworthy my readiness, nay, my anxiety to serve them whenever and wherever I possibly can. And though my service be not unmixed gold, though there be in it some of the dross of imperfection, I would not withhold my hand on that account, but I would serve the more readily and gladly in the hope and assurance that by suffering with the needy and unworthy in their need and unworthiness the fire of their pain and sorrow may help refine away the dross in me and leave only that of pure gold.

"Give to the needy! worthy or unworthy!” should be the battle cry of him who wishes to be a blessing to his fellows, and the more unworthy the needy are, the more loving and wise the service should be. When Walt Whitman was shedding blessing, benediction, comfort, and joy on every hand throughout the hospitals of Washington, he had little or no money to give. He asked no questions when he went to the bedside of the sick and dying soldier boys as to whether they were worthy or not. They were needy and that was enough for him. He stayed and soothed their weary hours by telling them stories, reading to them, writing letters

home for them, and in a thousand and one little and big ways seeking to make their sick beds more tolerable during the long hours of enforced confinement.

One of his rules for the making of a true poet was that he should "give alms to all who ask,” and that he should "stand up for the stupid and crazy." I have a friend in Chicago who seeks absolutely to live these two rules in his daily life. Even though he may often give to the unworthy, he feels he can better afford to do that than to miss once giving to a really needy person lest he might be giving to some one who was neither needy nor worthy.

A poet, whom I am very fond of quoting, once wrote:

In men whom men condemn as ill,
I find so much of goodness still;

In men whom men account divine,
I find so much of sin and blot;

I hesitate to draw the line between the two;
Where God has not.

It is impossible properly and wisely to differentiate, and because a man is unworthy is all the more reason that his fellows should seek to help him into a state of worthiness.

How I wish I could imbue all with the spirit that moves Charles Montgomery, the prisoner's friend of San Francisco. He goes to the state peniten

tiaries at San Quentin and Folsom, and arranges to give help to the prisoners as soon as they are released. Nay, he provides places for them and then goes before the board of parole and secures their release. He takes a true brother's interest in the men and seeks to win them to a nobler life. Doubtless he is often deceived, but in scores of cases he starts the men on the up-grade. What is one failure or ten, to one success or ten? If it were my son that was saved I should be most grateful even though he saved but one. It would make his work glorious and blessed to me. Then try to feel what it must be for some other father or mother to learn that his, or her, son is saved from the life of hell, to the life of heaven, here and now, and do as much for that son as you would for your

own.

I doubt not that some of the boys Judge Lindsay seeks to save in Denver, are not all they ought to be, and that sometimes he is disappointed in the results. But does this make him lose heart, or cease to work for the new cases that come? By no means! It makes him more determined than ever to reach their hearts. He is more tender, more long-suffering, more patient, more sympathetic, more loving. The greater the need the greater the endeavor.

The other day I sat down to the dinner table with a friend who outlined to me a project in which

himself and four others are interested. It is to buy a farm, on the shores of a small but beautiful lake, a few miles out from one of our great cities, and there establish a home and a school for needy children. These five devoted young people are now working hard and each one is saving every cent he can out of his own earnings that, without calling upon any one else, they may be able to buy the farm. I had asked my friend why he did not go to hear the great actress Bernhardt. The reason was that he preferred to put the three dollars that a ticket to hear Bernhardt would have cost into his "child farm fund." Here was self-denial with joy, for the privilege of service. And whom will he serve? There will be no question asked as to the worthiness or unworthiness of the children that will be received into this home when established.*

* Since these pages were written this farm-school has become an established fact, and is doing excellent and beautiful work for needy children.

CHAPTER XIX

RADIANCIES OF HUMOR

I WANT to radiate humor and my apprecia

tion of it. But it must be natural, genuine, kindhearted, sweet, and pure. The humor that has a sting for some one else, that is unkind, unjust, malicious, cruel, or unclean is not for me. And, furthermore, I do not want that any one should ever feel that I can or would enjoy such humor. I want to radiate such a spirit, give forth such an " that no one will ever come to me with unkind or unclean humor, or expect me to want to hear it.

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aura

No, true humor is gentle, kind, humane, and human. I think little of any man or woman who cannot enjoy a good hearty laugh. I believe in laughter; in joking, in fun, in wit, in humor

in the things that provoke laughter. Laugh heartily, laugh loud, laugh long, and you will oftentimes laugh away dyspepsia, the blues, and worries. Laugh at your own misfortunes, your own mishaps. My dear friend, Burdette, used to clap me on the back and exclaim in his bright, cheery voice: "Be your own funny man." He