Watch Yourself Go By

by Al. G. Field

"I am surprised at this, Alfred. It sounds so very much like the restrictions placed upon ministers. Does it hamper you in your affairs?"

"Not in the least. That is, not now. There was a time when I was younger that I felt the sting pretty keenly. Now it has a different effect. You remember Bill Jones in Brownsville? He had a boy named Bill. Young Bill was under discussion by the cracker barrel committee in Oliver Baldwin's grocery. Andy Smith had just remarked that 'Bill Jones's boy is a durned fool; he don't know nuthin'; he don't know enough to gether greens; he don't know enough to slop hogs.' Just then he noticed the boy's father sitting behind the stove. Old Bill had overheard Andy's talk. Andy endeavored to square himself. In an apologetic tone he said: 'But, taint' your fault, Bill; tain't your fault; ye ain't to blame. You learnt him all you know.' You can't tell anything about human nature and the better plan is to make yourself as agreeable to those you respect and love and to keep others at arm's length. When you feel that folks have any objections to you, beat them to it. They soon come over."

"Do you remember a boy that was raised in Brownsville, worked in Snowden's Machine Shop? Do you remember he worked his way up? He entered the ministry. He became a very good preacher, quite eloquent. There was a movement inaugurated by some of his boyhood friends to have him brought to Brownsville to fill the pulpit of a church. The women of taste were sort of running things. The Brownsville boy who had become a preacher was turned down. Do you remember why? Well, his parents were very humble people. The taste of many of the members revolted at the idea of the pulpit of the church being filled by one whose father worked around the town in his shirt sleeves. Do you remember the trade of his father?"

"No, I have forgotten."

"Well, he was a carpenter." The uncle did not perceive the application at once. After a moment he nodded his head a half dozen times, very slowly as he framed the question: "What became of—?"

"He is living in retirement with his children in Houston, Texas. He became a noted man in the ministry of that state. He never visited his old home after the slight put upon him by the taste of a part of the congregation."

"Well, Alfred, your experience has been of great value to you. You have met all manner of people."

"Yes, and in all walks of life. And my estimate of them is, that human nature is about the same in all men, although some of them possess the faculty to a greater degree than others of concealing it. The first President I ever met to talk to was General Grant. I had always read of him as the Silent Man of Destiny; but he did about all the talking for all those about him the few moments I was in his presence."

"I met Ben Harrison, but that was before he was President. It was during a political campaign in Indiana. He seemed to me to be about as cool and level-headed a man as I ever met. I stood beside him on a car platform. In Petersburg, Va., after he was elected President, he came out of his private car in response to the cheers of the crowd. I feel sure he intended to make a short speech, as the multitude seemed to demand it. The President was bowing his acknowledgments to the large gathering, when someone, with that bad taste that always crops out at the most inopportune moment, yelled 'Hurrah for Cleveland.' A great many others, with bad taste, laughed. Harrison flushed to his temples, bowed and backed into the car.

"I met Cleveland twice. Once in that old club in Buffalo, N. Y. Cleveland was sheriff at that time. He was in the prime of manhood, sociable and full of animation. He did not talk much but was a good listener and a hearty laugher at the stories George Bleinstein related. I met him again after he was out of the Presidential chair. His health was shattered. He was endeavoring to recuperate in that most sensible way, hunting and fishing. His limbs were in such condition he could not endure the exercise and did not get the benefit he anticipated from the outdoor life.