What is the probability of a man who cannot speak the English language, and who receives nothing more tangible than a pay envelope and its contents, handed to him by number, sitting by the cot of his son and inspiring the imagination of the coming American? If he says anything, is he not likely to say—are there not a million homes where this is the only appropriate thing that can be said: “My boy, I am sorry that I brought you into the world. I see nothing in life for you. The future is not only dumb but awful dark.”
The kind of men who made this country were told a different story at their trundle beds. They were inspired with hope, for their parents were full of hope. They were filled with expectation, for they knew their parents were expectant. If we revive contented, hopeful Americanism we must inspire “castle building.” We must fill the youth with hope and whet his imagination to keenest edge until he will intuitively seek literature instead of twaddle with which to express his aspiration.
“I stand at the end of the past, where the future begins I stand,
Emperors lie in the dust, others shall rise to command;
But greater than rulers unborn, greater than kings who have reigned
Am I that have hope in my heart and victories still to be gained.
Under my feet the world, over my head the sky,
Here at the center of things, in the living presence am I.”