This, of course, is just one of the enemies of a boy's kingdom; I have spoken of it particularly because it is the one which seems to catch boys off their guard most easily. There are many others. Intemperance of any kind is an enemy to the best interests of your empire. Send out a proclamation to yourself, to-day, and put all provinces on notice that you are on your throne and God is your Counsellor—and that henceforth none of the kingdom's enemies will be admitted across the border.
Read 1 Corinthians 10:9-15.
XLIII
A TOOL BOX
Say, fellows, on one of my boyhood birthdays I received a tool box. It was a peach of a tool box, too; not one of the dime store variety, with a saw the same length as the gimlet, but with a set of tools that no amateur carpenter would despise. I was greatly delighted with that tool box, and immediately began planning the things I would make. Mother wanted a shelf on the back porch and a coop for an old hen just off with her chicks; my dog needed a dog house, and I even aspired to a rowboat for the pond. I could hardly wait for material before getting to work. Fingering over those tools, my eye fell upon a motto graven on the inside of the lid of the box. It read:
Be Sure You Are Right—Then Go Ahead
Very good advice, I thought; but perhaps intended for fellows who knew less about tools than I did. I guessed I was not so apt to make mistakes, knowing so well what I wanted to do, and being so determined to do it. Several dollars' worth of lumber and nails were laid in, and I entered at once upon the work of "general manufacturing." Fritz was wagging his tail and barking as if he had scented the dog house in my plans, so I decided to attend to that first. It would have been better to start with the shelf, as that was simpler; but I slashed away on the dog house, and soon had some stuff sawed up for the framework. It didn't match. I sawed some more, and that didn't match. I began to think perhaps Fritz didn't specially need a dog house anyhow; so I tried to work the dog house materials into the chicken coop, but that wouldn't go, either. Then I sawed some more for the chicken coop. It was not as simple a proposition as I had thought it would be, besides there was a confusion of design somehow in my mind. The day wound up with nothing accomplished, except a lot of good material butchered to the point of kindling wood only. Next morning I tackled something I "knew I could do,"—the shelf. But that proved to be a surprisingly obstinate job; the supports I sawed at different angles, and when trying to force the joints together by nailing, I split them both. The shelf was a failure.
Then I saw a light.