“The small task—well performed—opens the door to larger opportunity.”
Fritz and His Sun Dial
Years ago, I saw a near-sighted cook peeling onions—a most pathetic scene if one judges entirely from appearances. The incident impressed me deeply at the time, although it had long since passed from my mind, when good old Fritz came to me, with tears running down the dusty furrows of his be-wrinkled and weather-beaten face.
Some strange analogy revived the old memory. There is—say what one will—something tremendously ludicrous about honesty when clothed too deeply in rusticity. We smile at it while we give it our love and respect.
It can toy with our heart-strings, playing both grave and gay. We laugh at it so that we may not cry and become laughable ourselves.
In broken English, he tried to explain that which was self-evident and needed no explanation—his own distress and desperation. His simple earnestness—his frank, honest manner—won every one’s immediate sympathy. The boys began to plan to relieve his distress, even while they laughed with scant courtesy in the old man’s face.
His clothes were many sizes too large, which was not entirely offset by his cap that was several sizes too small. Through his broken shoes, ten toes spoke in most eloquent English—the need of protection and shelter.