In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the tree of Life is blooming,
There is rest for you.”
And here we all come in on the chorus:
“There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you!”
My reason for choosing this above all other music is that these people in their dull, hard life were really weary, and they really found rest in this song.
Some years ago I went for a shave into a barber shop of a New England city. I was to deliver an address, and somehow I have found nothing more soothing to the nerves than to sink down into a chair while the barber rubs in the lather and then scrapes it off. All this, of course, is conditioned upon the sharpness of the razor and my inability to hear the barber’s questions. I have often wondered if imaginative barbers ever feel a desire to seize the victim by the throat and use the razor like a carving-knife. Several of them have looked at me as though they would enjoy doing this, and the thought has actually driven me to a safety razor. But, at any rate, shortly before this speech was due I went in for my shave. At that time I carried an electric instrument, a sort of personal telephone, which enabled me to hear at least part of conversations. It contained a small battery, a sound magnifier and an ear piece. I hung this on a nail, threw my overcoat and hat over it, and sat down for my shave when the boss barber motioned “next.”