Letters from An Old Time Salesman to His Son

By R. L. JAMES

General Sales Manager, Libby, McNeill & Libby

Chicago and New York

THE DARTNELL CORPORATION

1922

Published by

The Dartnell Corporation

Dartnell Building

Ravenswood and Leland Avenues

Chicago, Illinois

All privileges of reproducing

illustrations or letter press

expressly reserved by the

publishers

Copyright 1922

in the United States, Canada and

Great Britain

R. L. JAMES

Chicago

Printed by The Dartnell Press

CONTENTS

The Story Behind These Letters

THE most refreshing thing about these letters is that they are real letters, written by a real salesman to a real son. Therein they differ from so many books of this character. There is a certain satisfaction in knowing that what you are reading was written by a man who has been through the mill.

Another refreshing thing about these letters is that they were not written for publication. The motive behind them is an interesting one. Mr. James began his business career as a salesman, calling on the retail trade in small towns. Shortly after a son came to bless his home—a red-headed boy who was christened “Hal.” Like all men who make a success of their profession, Mr. James believed in his work and his dreams of the future for his son always pictured the boy as a traveling salesman. As the boy grew and developed traits of character, what was more natural than that his dad, who shared the boy’s problems, should visualize his son with these same peculiar traits running afoul of the same pitfalls and snags that beset the path of every young man in sales work? What was more natural than that he should try to impart to his boy the secrets of his success as a salesman and manager of salesmen, so that the son might use the father’s achievement as a short cut?

Through some underground avenue, best known to himself, it came to the attention of the editor of the Libby house-organ that Mr. James—then a department manager—was writing a series of most interesting human letters to his boy. After much persuasion Mr. James agreed to the anonymous publication of these letters—with deletions of a personal character—in the Libby salesman’s bulletin. For two years the letters of an old time salesman to his son were the most eagerly read feature of one of the most readable of salesmen’s publications.

After the letters had run the gamut from salesman to general sales manager, during the writing of which the author himself had risen to the position of General Sales Manager of his Company, they came to an end. That they had exerted a powerful influence in moulding the character of every Libby salesman there can be no question. No man could read the letters without being the better for having done so. And I feel that Mr. James in permitting the publication of them in book form, so that the message they carry may be spread out beyond the limited confines of the Libby organization and conveyed to every man who sells things, has taken a big step toward fulfilling the obligation which every man owes to his profession. If every salesman could read this book it would do more for the cause of better, cleaner salesmanship than any other one thing.

J. C. Aspley,

Editor, “Sales Management Magazine.”

THE TRAVELING MAN

How many of you remember the golden days of yore

When you were an uncouth urchin hanging ’round the village store,

When the loafers saved the country—changed the tariff every day

’Mid the fumes of various mixtures of tobacco-labeled hay,

How you forgot the colored candles and the tempting cookie can

When the door was quickly opened and in walked the Traveling Man.

’Member how some way or other conversation seemed to stop,

When he opened up his samples and your eyes would fairly pop

At experiences he related as he took his order down,

Talked about a three-ring circus—he was better than a clown,

How you wondered and you worshiped and resolved to break each ban

That would keep you from becoming, some day too, a Traveling Man.

Never seemed he ever worried, life to him was always bright

For you’d seen him in the morning and you’d seen him late at night:

Altho’ he was always working you could always see his smile

Wasn’t put on—just came natural, catchy, bubbling all the while;

You resolved to be just like him, now deny it if you can,

Your day dreams were filled with longing just to be a Traveling Man.

Years have passed—you’ve lived to see all your boyhood dreams come true

And now you’re doing daily all the things he used to do;

Now you know he had his troubles which he smiled thru right along,

But it makes your memory dearer—that his life was not all song;

And like him you keep a-hustling, glad that you have joined the clan

That begets true admiration—Here’s to you, A Traveling Man!

—R. L. James

The Boy Starts Out—Green and Gullible But Full of Pep

Dear Hal:

Your letter written as you had just finished your first week as a cub salesman was received and I’ve enjoyed reading it over, two or three times, because it brings out the fact that after all, the game doesn’t change a great deal in fundamentals since the time I used to beat the brush.

I notice that you’re impressed with the fact that it was pretty easy for the regular salesman Ryan to sell goods, and that you think he’s a wonderful salesman. Now, of course, I never met Ryan and I don’t doubt from what you say that he is fairly popular with the trade, knows the line and is a hard worker, but from some of the things you say, I’m not exactly sure that Ryan is the man who wrote the first book on salesmanship, but, of course, I may be mistaken. With all due respect to Ryan, you must remember that your company was manufacturing and marketing food products long before Ryan was strong enough to shake a rattle.

Now, I’m not trying to belittle the honest sales effort of yourself or your friend Ryan in the least, but I just want to be sure that you appreciate the fact that your success last week wasn’t due 100 per cent to the siren voice of your salesmanship, but that a great big piece of credit was due to the solid foundation on which you were building your sales.

I notice you sort of “bragged” over the fact that you sold only the best merchants in each town and those who were capable of giving orders worth while. If I had to take my choice between five nice new ten dollar bills and five old ragged ones, why, of course, I’d choose the crinkly kind, but if there wasn’t any law against my getting both piles, I don’t think I’d be so particular, because it has been my experience that the ragged ones can be changed into just as many dimes and quarters as the new ones, and either one is acceptable to the receiving teller when you pass the little black book under the wicket on Saturday.

Now the matter of choice in selling retailers is just the same. With a line like your company has, in the first place you should attempt to place it in a big way in the best stores in the town, but there isn’t any game law against selling it to the little fellow around the corner, is there? Nobody in “the house” ever told you to beware of selling the small merchant, did they? You bet they didn’t! In fact, every successful business has been founded on the small customer, who afterward grew into the big one. You know when Marshall Field first started in business his store didn’t cover a city block, but I suppose there were some two and three-quarters per cent salesmen in those days who thought Field’s business was too small to bother with, but if any of those salesmen are still living you can probably find them now acting as a nurse-girl to a wheezy taxicab.

Notice you say Ryan told you the reason he didn’t call on some merchants was because there was no use—they couldn’t be sold. I’ll never forget, the fellow who broke me in as a salesman told me the same thing my first week as we were getting off a train in a little Missouri town that had only two stores in it. He said that the one customer we sold there was the much better merchant of the two and it was no use to go near the other one.

Well, I believed him, and made my one call in the town regularly and received the one order and thought I was doing pretty well until one day, when I called, my customer informed me that he had just sold out to the other merchant across the street and that henceforth there would be only one store there.

Of course, I went over and tried to sell the other fellow, but he naturally wondered why I’d never called before and I didn’t have any very good answer. The result was that I was beaten by my own stupidity and I had to call on that fellow for six months before I ever scratched an order book.

Now that is only one of many instances I could tell you, but I’ve found that there is one thing that, as a salesman, you must never take another man’s word for and that is that So-and-So across the street, or around the corner, will not buy. I’ve always found it a safe rule to call on every man who had his door unlocked and the worst thing that ever happened to me in applying the rule, was to get an occasional turn-down, while I have had the surprise of my life many times, to see what big orders you could get out of a little store.

The longer you sell goods, the more you’ll realize that it’s a battle from start to finish, but just take it from the old man that you’ll have more luck capturing an increase in salary at the end of the year with a whole army of little dough-boy customers on your list than you will by trying to impress the boss with a giant named Goliath who is a single-footer.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Writes That He Has Arrived as a “Regular” Salesman

Dear Hal:

Your mother and I have just finished reading your last letter, and while I realize that you may be getting pretty well fed up on my letters, I cannot help commenting on some of the things you have written about.

I imagine it is just about as much fun for you to get one of my letters as holding a horse in a rain. You probably look on them as containing the proverbial “good advice.” I can almost hear you saying more men have starved to death on good advice than were ever killed on the field of battle.

All of that I’ll admit, but words from an old traveler of the road you’ve just started on is a good deal like castor oil—you kick up a lot of fuss if you have to take it when you’re young, but as you grow older you realize that it didn’t hurt you a bit and in most cases prolonged the life of your “engine.”

I notice that you have gone just far enough in the selling game to discover that your goods are higher priced than every competitor’s; the merchants overloaded; business on the bum; the office manager a crab; the credit man hard-boiled and the plant unappreciative of what a salesman is up against.

Well—now, isn’t that just too bad! But doesn’t it occur to you that with everything so badly messed up, it is strange that the firm continues to worry along and pay dividends on its stock, year after year? Of course, the buyer tells you your prices are too high—otherwise he wouldn’t be the buyer, but would more probably be rolling barrels of salt around in the basement for a living—you don’t expect him to ask you to add a little to the price, do you? And man alive!—if the goods would sell themselves your company could replace you with a post-card.

Last, but not least, they thought best to hire a 1922 model eight-cylinder salesman, like you (you scamp) instead of trying to get by with a two-cylinder flivver that isn’t a self-starter.

Business is bum, eh? I’m sorry you told me because that’s the cry of the quitter and I hate to think you would make a phonograph record of yourself. Business is bad for some people all the time and similarly, business is good for others most of the time. Now I’m willing to admit, understand, that there are business lulls in all lines, but if you’ll trace back the origin of that expression, I’ll wager you’ll find the thought was first expressed by one of those hotel lobby lizards who got used to the buyer hunting him up during the recent period of big demand and small supply. To the fellow who really loves the game (and if you don’t you shouldn’t be in it) the changed conditions, or the lull, if you prefer that name, only means more “turndowns” which can be overcome by “more calls” and at the end of the day, he finds he’s been too busy to notice that lull and his order-book may reflect smaller orders, but gee—he’s got a lot of ’em!

And the office Manager’s a crab; and the credit man hard-boiled;—well now, what do you think of that! Of course, the Office Manager should be a mind-reader and overlook it when you send in claims without the proper information, or reports only half-filled out, but somehow or other he isn’t—no, he’s just human like all the rest of us—has a lot to do and the company don’t pay him for “guessing” at things you do.

The credit man is another good friend and a salesman’s safety valve. Both of ’em are the easiest men in the world to get popular with, but you have to do your share and come clean. Sloppy reports and incorrect information may be the easiest way out for the moment, but they never fool these “watch dogs of the exchequer,” and after all, if it were not for them, your pay check wouldn’t come out so regularly.

Now you’re wrong again, when you think the plant superintendent doesn’t appreciate your problems. He gives them really more thought than you do, for you have only one house to work with, while he has to try to answer the demands of six hundred salesmen.

Now, Old Top, I expect you think I have stepped on you pretty hard in this letter, but I haven’t intended to. If you weren’t my own boy, I imagine I’d expect less of you, but it’s pretty hard for the old man, knowing that a great big red-headed human dynamo, with hair on his upper lip, would bear even the earmarks of a whiner, not to appeal to your better judgment by making fun of the petty trials that every red-blooded salesman has gone through and graduated from, just like you got over the nursing bottle, measles and mumps.

But, anyway—read this letter twice, then remember, I’m laying a little bet on you and am anxious to get your next letter.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Thinks the House Should Accept Cancellations

Dear Hal:

For the past few months I have allowed your mother to do all the letter-writing from this end; in fact, Mother has become a pretty important factor around here since she has been given the vote. She insists that the home be in her name and my insurance in her name, so I’ve consented, and further allowed her to carry my religion in her name.

My chief reason for not writing sooner is that I wanted to wait until you had graduated into a “jobbing” salesman, because I knew you would eventually do so, and that with the new job would come new problems to talk about.

Yes, the jobbing game is quite a little different from selling the retailer, and I am glad to note that you have already found that the average jobber buyer is generally a pretty thorough business man, quite cold and calculating, and is more susceptible to quality and price than he is to a salesman’s personality, funny stories or the odor of “moonshine.”

Note you say you think that your company is making a mistake in not accepting cancellations of contracts with certain of their jobbing customers who have been pretty hard hit on sugar declines, and that you’re afraid your company will not do much business with those customers again, on account of refusing to “accommodate” them.

Say—Boy—just how do you get that way?

You think your company should bear “part” of the load, eh? You know one trouble with you aggressive, red-blooded, two-fisted “kids” (as you’ll always be to me, Red) is that you don’t look backward or forward far enough.

Now let’s look back a little. ’Way back last Spring your company came out with their opening prices on the goods they sell for Fall Delivery. On account, primarily, of the experience of the Wholesale Grocers over a long period of years, these jobbers bought, and why? Because they wanted to assure themselves of your company’s quality and against the possibility of an advance in cost after the goods were packed. That was their reason and now, why did your company contract? Because they wanted to assure themselves of a market for a certain per cent of their pack so that their operations would not be so speculative.

You know, no business that is purely speculative is fundamentally sound.

Now this contract arrangement between your company and the jobber was not philanthropic on either side. For years this custom has existed in the industry and has been found to be fashioned along the lines of sound economics. It is not a one-sided proposition by any means, for, if it were, it would not have obtained over all these years. Sometimes it has worked to the advantage of the canners, but just as often it has worked to the advantage of the jobber, depending entirely on conditions beyond the control of either. While both canners and jobbers may have been laying up treasures in heaven for years, neither has so far had sufficient prestige with the management to cause the rain, sun and frost to act just right for the proper development of fruit and vegetables, but under the contract system, both are protected as far as possible to be fair to both parties.

Now, Red, remember the entire commercial fabric of our nation is built up on confidence, and confidence can obtain only just so long as the integrity of the business world is maintained by the recognition of the validity of a contract entered into in good faith between buyers and sellers.

All right—now this year, as usual, after making these contracts with their wholesale grocer friends, your company invested its money in tin cans, sugar, boxes, other supplies and materials, contracted for acreage, labor and everything else, bought a large amount of their supplies long before they really needed them, but they must necessarily take no chances on failure. They borrowed money at prevailing high rates to finance it.

Now listen, son, do you remember when you were about nine years old, you wanted me to buy you a shot gun and a lot of other fool-killer arrangements, and you thought I was awfully hard-hearted because I wouldn’t get ’em for you? I would have liked to have gratified your desires, but, boy—it wasn’t good business. So, also, the cancellations—your company would like to “accommodate” their friends by canceling their contracts if it would help them, but it isn’t good business. If they did so, they would be morally bound to cancel every contract, if requested, because they should not do it for a few unless willing to do it for all—they must treat all alike.

You know, everyone admires liberality, and similarly, most people like to be liberal, but don’t get away from the fact that in business you can be liberal only up to a certain point, and after that it becomes damfoolishness; and don’t worry about losing the friendship of the customer requesting cancellation. Any business man will admire you for being a business man instead of a jelly-fish. He knows he has no good business reason for expecting you to cancel and, son, you’ll always make more friends than enemies when you’ve the nerve to stand up under fire when you’re in the right.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Has Been Promoted to a “Special” Salesman

Dear Hal:

Yes, I will admit that it begins to look like I never write you any more except when you get a promotion, but I wouldn’t advise you to figure on that too closely, because sometimes I’m liable to fool you.

As a matter of fact I’m not much for writing letters except when I have something to say, and when you were a little fellow I found that while you were susceptible to suggestions and advice, you were very quick to resent overdoses, so I’ve come to look on my letters a good deal like beef extract—a little of it in a whole cup of hot water is a nice thing, but no one relishes the idea of consuming a sixteen-ounce jar at one sitting.

I was interested in your announcement that you had been appointed a “special representative” and will travel out of Chicago doing missionary work. I wonder if you used that word “missionary” advisedly, or if it merely dropped out as a careless expression. Regardless of that, I’m sure you used the right word, for as I understand it, that’s just exactly what a “special representative” should be, but I am wondering if you are sure you really understand the full meaning of the word.

The usual adaptation of the word “missionary” as used in business circles is, “one who is sent out to generate, extend and foster business and all things pertaining thereto, on a certain product.”

Now, the same relative difference exists between a salesman and a “special representative” as does between a common or garden variety of preacher and a missionary, but the big trouble is a great many people fail to analyze that difference, which accounts for so many failures in the ranks of special representatives and church missionaries.

Now, if you’ll go to the trouble to drop around theoretically, to a “Home for Indigent (sounds like ‘indiligent,’ don’t it?) Business and Religious Missionary Failures,” you’d find after talking with Exhibit A and B their ideas of a missionary are a sort of a combination hand-shaking, chicken-eating, solicitous, dignified, well-dressed hombre, who sort of exhaled good will and felicitations, who didn’t have any duties in particular, but just traveled around “for the good of the cause.” And, of course, it goes without saying that that’s the reason why they’re inmates of the Home.

It’s true that a missionary is a sort of supersalesman, but it means “salesman plus” rather than “graduate salesman.”

A real missionary goes into the highways and byways; as the old fisherman says, “he ketches ’em where they ain’t.” He generates enthusiasm in the salesmen he comes in contact with; his sales work is educational; he sets an example for industry, sales ability, loyalty; he teaches the salesman to use superior judgment in not selling too little or too much to a customer; he irons out petty difficulties; he’s an exponent of the sales theory that contemplates holding your head up, but not so high as to let a lot of little orders go by under your nose without seeing them. Yet withal, he is humility personified, which is the true mark of a great man.

Now, son, don’t tell me that I’m only telling you stuff that you already know—of course, you know it—but what I want to know, do you capitalize that knowledge one hundred per cent?

Just remember, Red, when you go out on these new jobs, there’s a Wrong Way and a Right Way. You’ve traveled the road far enough to be able to distinguish the sign posts. While the Boss and Dad cannot see everything you do, it’s reflected in the results, boy; it’s reflected in the results!

Your loving,

“DAD.”

Dad Gives the Boy Some Sound Advice Regarding Team Work

Dear Hal:

When Mother read me your letter announcing that you had at last been appointed a Branch House Manager, as well as your comments on just what it meant to you, I thought I’d take time tonight to unburden myself of some of my views in that connection, that might be interesting to you at a time when you were just starting the new work.

I am wondering if you fully appreciate the difference in your position from a standpoint of responsibility.

Up to now, you have been working entirely for someone else and while you are still subject to considerable supervision, in addition thereto, you will now have others under your supervision—working under you.

Of course, you’ve been through the different stages of your company selling and around branch houses long enough to have a good working idea of the general routine of the work and I don’t doubt at all, but what you will handle that end of your work in good shape, but right now, at the start, Boy, let’s look at the bigger, broader things that are expected of you.

One of the first things that will impress you is just how poor a salesman Smith is, over in the East territory and what great weaknesses that new man over South is already demonstrating. Your hands will just fairly itch to grab hold and do it all yourself, in your own way, which, of course, you think is the only way, but WHOA—throw on the emergency, Old Top, you’re skidding! You’re a hustler all right and a good man, which you admit yourself, but, Boy, you just cannot spread yourself out over the whole territory and run the branch too, and again, if your company had wanted you to do all the selling they’d have told you so.

No, your job is to teach and lead others to do most of the selling, reserving only the hard-boiled and nursing-bottle customers that the other boys cannot land, or for some reason seem to avoid.

I want to bear down a little on that remark “teach and lead.” You know, back in the old days before Bryan ever ran for President, which is longer than you can remember, the popular belief was that the best way to get the best results out of a man on any job was for the Boss to be sort of a mixture of Simon Legree, pyrotechnic cuss-words, bar-room sarcasm and “Drill ye Terriers, Drill” policy, but thanks to a revolutionary era which was directed by common hog-sense, instead of the kind that the butcher buys in five pound pails, that kind of man-management has been tabooed.

Yes, I know—I know there are a lot of things you’re not going to stand for and you’re all right in it too. There are a lot of things you shouldn’t stand for, as a Manager, but what I’m talking about, Red, is the best way to go about to correct them.

Before you sit down and dictate that red hot, phosphorous, steaming, sizzling letter to Hulbert on account of the way he emphasized his unfortunate displacement of bone, where gray matter should be, stop a minute, Red, close your eyes a minute and let this picture come back. Remember when you were new, when you were beating the brush?—you got in that town that’s always a Jonah; was raining and had been all week; the farmers weren’t paying their bills; it was inventory time and it just seemed like every merchant you called on was just a little more grouchy than the last; no one wanted your goods, and after working hard all day in the rain and snow, you ended up at a so-called hotel that made you think of the Biltmore—it was so different!

You were hungry, but after a glance at the greasy fried potatoes, a pork chop burned to a cinder and the inevitable bread pudding, you just swallowed the lump in your throat and called it a meal? After sitting around the lobby making out a few reports and listening to the senseless patter of a dumb-bell in a checked suit and a pink tie, you took your little pitcher with the broken handle, filled it at the faucet and went up to a sea-going bed that humped up in the middle like William S. Hart’s pet broncho?

Remember, Red, how you worried yourself to sleep—sick of the whole bloomin’ mess, but determined that if others could succeed, you could? You got up in the morning, shaved in ice water, but stuck out your chin and strode to the dining room? Remember the gum-chewing waitress whom someone had told she looked like Theda Bara, who brought in a murky glass of water and exclaimed in a breath, “Steakhamliver’nbacon an’ how’d you want yer aigs?” You wouldn’t have known the coffee if it hadn’t been in a cup, but you picked around like an old hen and sauntered out into the lobby still unbeaten when the fresh squirt behind the register handed you three letters.

Ah, Red—how you smiled! The first one was written in a round girlish hand and told of the good time she was planning with you when you got back to “headquarters.” The next one was written in an old-fashioned hand, now a little scrawly and nervous from age, but it carried the “mother message” of hope and pride in the success she knew was bound to come to “her boy.” Things weren’t so black after all—you’d show those hard-shell merchants you would. You were almost normal when you opened the last letter, which from the envelope you knew was from “the Boss.” It read—“Why don’t you send us some orders—we didn’t send you out to write up weather reports; we don’t pay your salary to allow you to loll in good hotels. Unless you do better next week, we’ll have to make a change.”

Bam! How’d you feel, Red? Now, honest—hasn’t it happened to you? Did it fill you full of pep and enthusiasm and cause you to go out and just knock the cover off the ball? You bet it didn’t and such things never will. That kind of letter was written by a graduate hack-driver, not a real man manager.

New, Red, listen—you were made Branch Manager because of your experience, not alone in the product—not alone in selling, but experience in Life. Your company thinks you have seen so much of conditions that you know how to “help” the weaker brother over the rough places. Teach ’em, Red, lead ’em! The only place for a driver is on the south end of a pair of mules. A kind word here, a helpful suggestion there, will make your men want to take off their coats to help you, Boy, and it is the cheapest way in the world to buy loyalty.

And Red, don’t spend all your time telling the other fellow how to do it. All men are not “from Missouri,” but the “show me” method carries a healthier kick than volumes of sales talks.

You’re going to be a busy man in the new job, Boy, but Mother and I have decided now that we’re glad we didn’t insist on your finishing your musical education, for some day we know you’ll be a Sales Manager and I tell Mother that if she had her way, you would now be playing the snare drum in a jazz orchestra.

Let’s go, Boy, let’s go!

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Is Having His Troubles as a Branch Manager

Dear Hal:

Mother and I received your letter several days ago and I have given quite some thought to the problems you mention, because I wanted to advise you right, if at all.

Note you say you are not meeting with the success you expected to, in your present campaign and you attribute it to several causes, among them a consumers’ hunger strike, conservative buying and lack of effort on the part of the salesmen.

Well—now, of course, the Old Man may not know as much about it as you do, but from several other statements you made in your letter, I’m wondering if you have really struck the real reason.

I don’t want to misjudge you, Boy, but those reasons you give are becoming so much of a chestnut to me—I’ve heard ’em so often that I’m pretty sure I know their origin. I know that during the holidays—just before Christmas—you could hear those records being played on almost any talking machine that you cared to listen to, but I thought surely, with the coming of the New Year you’d forget the “Stove League Chatter” and chase “Old Man Gloom” out into the sunshine.

You know, I’m reminded of a fellow I used to know when I wore knee breeches. Tom Foreman was a boy who was raised in our town and who never knew what it was to run off to go swimming, rob a melon patch or play hookey. His folks always dressed him nice and he was a fair student in school, but he never batted over about a hundred and twenty-six in the back alley league, so, of course, there was no farewell reception tendered him by “the gang” when his folks decided to send him away to college.

Tom would come back to town for vacations for a brief visit, but somehow or other his schooling didn’t seem to humanize him any and each time he came he seemed to be just a little more “uppish” than the time before, but he was very fond of airing his superior wisdom—sort of casting his pearls before swine, as it were, even though we didn’t give him any encores.

In this particular vicinity the only game that was available was a few cotton-tails and an occasional Jack Rabbit in the winter time, so that hunting had become a lost art and the sportively inclined always looked to some other sort of amusement.

We never knew exactly how it happened, but it seemed like the boys of the Eata Bita Pie Fraternity or whatever it was, got to talking about hunting big game over their pipes one night and Tom suddenly developed one of his bright ideas which had been heretofore extinct and he took to bragging to his fellow pie-biters about the exceptionally good hunting that was available in the vicinity of his old home town. Although this was in the days before prohibition, Tom had never seriously gone in for tonsil irrigation, yet it must have been something that made him wax eloquent, for the first thing we knew he had brought four embryo captains of industry down to our town, all dressed up like a Roosevelt African party and they announced their intention of going out on a big hunt. Tom, of course, was too learned to ask any of the home-guard any questions, so they started out one spring morning in full regalia.

The boys caused quite a little excitement among the fellows whose full dress uniform consisted of a canvas cap with a coffee advertisement printed on it, a pair of overalls and a fifty-cent shirt, but we held that excitement in bounds until they came home in the evening. Of course, we never knew the grewsome details, but along about seven o’clock that night, the hunting party returned. The total bag of the day consisted of three ground squirrels, a hawk, one rabbit and Lafe Benson’s tom-cat—and say, you should have heard the profane vocabulary that those city chaps spilled every time Tom came near them. Of course, Tom was their host and all that and they had to end their remarks with an apology, but to sit around and listen you couldn’t help but gather the idea that Tom graded a good deal lower than water goods in fruits, when they classified him as a huntsman.

Now, I just mention this story in passing, because it brings out the fact that Tom and his party hadn’t analyzed the situation. Their intentions were good and they had plenty of equipment, but the dumb-bell that was leading the party, Tom, hadn’t given the matter any thought and had no definite plan. He was just hoping that through some miracle all the game for miles around would just come up and plead to be shot.

You know, Red, some Branch House Managers employ similar tactics. They have the product, the samples, the salesmen and the enthusiasm, but they don’t analyze the possibilities—they don’t compare the sales with the available prospects in a territory—they allow their salesmen to take a turn-down from a buyer who should buy big, without attempting to make another trial. You know an amateur hunter sometimes shoots into a flock of ducks and wings a couple and you can sometimes stick a shotgun under a corncrib and pull the trigger without looking and maybe kill a rabbit, but the thinking hunter sees the game and does his best to pick ’em off, one by one, and generally comes in at night with a full bag. A manager who allows his salesmen to come out of a town that has five prospects, with two orders and three excuses, hasn’t taught ’em right.

The hunger strike was in Ireland—Red—not in your territory! Conservative buying can be overcome, by not being a conservative seller—SELL MORE OF ’EM and OFTENER.

Your salesmen’s effort will not worry you if you don’t waste it—direct ’em, Boy, ANALYZE—HAVE A PLAN!

Remember, if your next letter don’t tell of your being a top-notcher in your campaign, it’s going to hurt the pride of

Your loving,

“DAD.”

Dad Tells the Boy Why It Pays to Advertise

Dear Hal:

The letter Mother and I received from you just last night proved very interesting to me and I’ve been thinking about it all day, for you unconsciously wrote quite an essay on advertising.

From the general tone of your letter, I imagine that you have not given any serious consideration to the many ramifications of advertising and the true meaning of the word, for you seem to think that those in charge of your business have a brother-in-law in the advertising game whom they have to support and that therefore, they’re spending a lot of money uselessly, that they had better put into salesmen’s salaries.

Now, I’m not an advertising expert, or very much up on the line of argument that a real advertising man would turn loose on you under similar circumstances. All I know about it has been learned in just the old-fashioned school of common-sense plus what I see around me every day and I am more than surprised to think that a red-headed scamp with horn-rimmed goggles couldn’t see certain signs as clearly as I do.

You seem to have the idea that because your line of goods is the finest thing in cans on the market, and has been so for fifty years, that the world and some parts of Missouri know it, never will forget it and chant it as an ode before breakfast every morning and that therefore, the constant advertising that your company keeps up is all unnecessary. I further gather that you think the glib tongues of yourself and salesmen, plus the glibness of your predecessors are entirely responsible for the business you enjoy.

Now, I’m not denying for an instant the insistent urge of the contents of the can on the appetite of the consumers or the efforts—Real Sales Efforts—of the hard-hitting salesmen on your company’s payroll, both now and in the by-gone days, but I would like you to appreciate that those things were nothing more than ADVERTISING and the other kind of advertising that you are talking about is but another form that augments the other and that all of it working together has been able to produce this present result and to attempt to minimize the effect of any of it is as foolish as the argument of the backwoods hill billy who argued against giving his son an education because he had never had one.

Now, Red, you’ve traveled some and still do and I wonder if you ever got acquainted with that black bound book with the red edges that lies on the table in most hotel rooms. On the back of the book is a picture of a water-pitcher and underneath it says something about being placed there by the Gideon Society and if you ever looked in it, you’d find it was that (almost obsolete to some salesmen) gem of literature known as The Holy Bible. No, I’m not starting to preach—fact is, preachers are not the only ones who read the Bible. I’ll admit that it isn’t always as lively reading as Ade or Ibanez, but strange as it may seem to you, you heathen, this Book is not only found in hotel rooms, but on the reading desks of our best citizens—and there’s a reason.

You know, Red, the Bible isn’t an old moth-eaten account of prehistoric people, as some might think, but it really contains some of the best business stories that you can pick up.

Speaking again of advertising, if you’ll just open up that Book the next time you’re in a hotel room, or can borrow one from the neighbors, turn to the latter part of the Book of Genesis and begin to read about Joseph. For fear you will not get to your hotel room from the pool hall soon enough, or your own Bible is in the trunk in the storeroom, I’ll just tell you about it.

It seems that this fellow Joseph was kind of a hard luck individual in the early days and he got off on the wrong foot with his brethren and was sold into bondage and carried down into Egypt. He sparred around in Egypt for several years, just like lots of others do in these days, without being taken very seriously—sort of working the retail trade, as it were, when by some clever bit of personal advertising, like stepping on a fellow’s foot or something, he got acquainted with Pharaoh, who was the Woodrow Wilson of the party in power at that time. It seems that Pharaoh had some kind of a dream (this same thing still happens you know) and Joe had the good Fortune to be allowed to interpret it. He predicted that there would be a famine in the land following several years of plenty and he sold the idea to Pharaoh so well that Pharaoh set up a Food Administration and appointed Joseph as the Herbert Hoover of it and he immediately started a corner on the grain market.

Well, to make a long story short—Joe had the right “dope” and just as he predicted there was a famine fell upon the land, but due to Joseph’s foresight, which was unhampered by politicians, there was plenty of food for all and Joe became a great man. Joseph’s brothers who had mistreated him when he wore knee pants, came down to see him and brought Dad along and they were quite surprised to find him the Big Noise in Egypt, but they were hungry.

Now, Joe had been raised right—was a decent sort of chap and all that, so he welcomed them and persuaded ’em to go back and bring the rest of the “gang.” They did so and the first thing they knew Egypt looked like Coney Island on Sunday afternoon—just full of Jews, and the people treated them fine because they were Joseph’s relatives.

Then, if you’ll skip on to the first few verses in Exodus, you’ll find a sentence that speaks volumes. It says “And there arose a new king in the land who knew not Joseph.” Now, get that Red—“There arose a new king in the land who knew not Joseph.” What can be plainer than that? Did you ever hear a better advertising argument? You see, Joseph got to thinking just like you talk—he thought he didn’t need ADVERTISING.

The rest of the story goes on to tell how the Jews fell in popular favor—they failed to keep their name, their merits and their accomplishments before the people and a new king arose who knew not Joseph.

Now I only tell you this story in passing and tell it in the language I do because it’s the only language you seem to understand. There are lots of other good stories in the Bible—dig ’em out Red—they’re good for you.

Boy, listen! Advertising doesn’t mean just so much printer’s ink in the newspapers, or magazines. That’s the most familiar form and it’s necessary and produces big, but there are other kinds. You know the majority of your trade never knew the founders of your company personally. When they think of your company they think of you. You’re the point of contact. What kind of an advertisement are you for the firm? Did you ever think of the responsibility you are carrying as a manager of your company? Do you know that every move, every letter you write, every position you take means that you are portraying your company to someone?

In business a new king arises in the land every day. There’s a new retail grocer—a new jobber—or jobber’s buyer on a thousand corners. They know not Joseph—regardless of how good your product is, or how long you’ve been on the territory, IT TAKES ADVERTISING TO PUT YOU ACROSS IN A BIG WAY.

I’m going to bed, Red, hoping I haven’t bored you. Just remember that the Old Man is always hoping that your personal label means as much as the label on your company’s can—if it does—ADVERTISE.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

Dad Counsels the Boy to Throw Away His Knickers and Put on Long Pants

Dear Hal:

Mother just finished reading your last letter aloud to me and while I know my quick reply will sort of shock you, I cannot help but unload a few pet ideas I have along the lines suggested in your letter.

If the proverbial innocent bystander, or casual observer were to pick up your letter in the street and would take it seriously (which I don’t) he’d certainly pick you up as hopeless, for the whole wail of your letter, in criticising the way the home office is handling you in particular and the sales organization in general, reminds me so much of the kind and constructive verbal barrage that a Republican Senator lays down every time a Democratic colleague intimates in public that his party won the World War.

A little over a week ago, I found time hanging a little heavily on my hands so I thought I’d take a run out to the Stock Yards and visit a little in your company’s office. I don’t know why I did it—guess it was a little touch of parental pride, or sentiment that must have come over me and I thought I’d go out and let ’em kid me along about that red-headed son of mine. Anyway, knowing them so well out there, I thought I’d enjoy the trip and I wasn’t disappointed. Things have changed quite a little since my time, but if I’m any judge they haven’t forgotten the Old Man’s admonition to “keep up the quality” not only in the product, but also in the caliber of the men who are running the business from the “boss” himself, clear down to the office boy.

Then I sat down at the boss’ desk and just as I expected he had some very nice things to say about you which, of course, were hard to take. After talking to him as long as I thought I dared, I went over and sat down at the desk where all the General Sales Department mail was being sorted and I summoned up enough courage to ask to see the open files they had with you. Don’t know why I did it—guess it was just because I was curious to see how well you handled things and I suppose they thought they’d gratify an old man’s whim by allowing it—anyway, they handed me a big bunch of correspondence and I went over and sat down in one of the private offices so I could digest it.

The first letter I picked up from the pile ran something like this, “Attached please find a letter from Salesman Hooiszis, asking that we purchase an automobile. What do you want to do with it?” And, as I expected, the salesman’s letter was typical of what could be expected from your letter. It merely said he “thought” he could get more business working with an automobile than he could by walking—no data—no estimates—no logical reasons, in fact no nothing on which anyone could base an intelligent opinion as to whether the request was justified.

Then I picked up another one of your letters that ran something like this, “Salesman I. M. Whatshisname was sick all of last week. Please advise if I shall pay him or not.” A flat statement with no recommendation as to what action you, as a Manager, would like taken.

Then I picked up a third letter that ran a good deal like this, “We have on hand twenty-eight Christmas Boxes which we have been unable to sell. No doubt some of the other houses have a market for them. Will you not please give us disposition.”

By the time I got through with that, Red, I’ll confess I had mingled emotions. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I wondered if they were framing up on me to give my pride a jolt and I looked out the door at the two men who handled those letters—noticed the bald spots on their heads, the wrinkles beginning to show around their eyes and the gray commencing to come around the temples and, Red—on the level, Boy, I didn’t wonder.

I couldn’t help but think of the story of the long suffering Job or how the songs and stories of the centuries have told of the long suffering patience of Mother Love and I’ll confess I couldn’t figure it out, for those fellows didn’t have the appearance of the Job I’d had described to me, nor did they resemble doting mammas, so I gathered up the bunch of letters, red in the face I’ll admit, and went out and asked one of ’em how in the double-jointed, concentrated essence of modern profanity they managed to reconcile their keeping you on the payroll after writing such letters as those first three. He looked at ’em, scratched his bald spot, smiled—think of it, Red, (you red-headed pepper-box) smiled when I was all ready for the thirty-second degree of apoplexy and said, “Well, Dad, the only trouble with you is that you quit after reading the first three.” Then he took up the rest, one by one, and showed me stuff that gradually brought me down to earth.

He showed me a dozen along the same line and ended up by saying, “You see, Dad, Red is a pretty good boy after all—it wasn’t very long ago that he was made Manager and he sometimes overlooks the fact that more is now expected of him and we’ll admit that some of his letters do smack of the kindergarten, but he’s sensible and we’re trying to teach him that we employ Managers to come to us with a decision or recommendation, not for one; something that we can approve or show him why it is impractical. In other words, to think for us, not we for him. And again, we are trying to pound through that red pate of his that stock he has is his responsibility—must be moved in his territory—not shipped to a more aggressive brother Manager.

“Don’t you worry, Dad, Red has his faults, but he’ll grow up.”

So I left, Red, feeling that your company was a little more tolerant than I would be and I guess after all, I’ll have to take some of the blame for your last letter, in that you’re my son, but when I read that letter of yours—full of criticism, but strangely minus suggestions—I couldn’t help mutter, “Take off the rompers, Boy, take ’em off—get on the long pants—you’re a big boy now.”

Just remember—anyone can criticize, but the boy with the sensible suggestion for improvement and the definite logical recommendation, doesn’t have to sit on the bench when they play the World’s Series.

Goodnight Red—think it over.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Has Begun to Solicit Dad’s Counsel

Dear Hal:

Your last letter made me happier than I can begin to tell you. In it you related some of your problems and really asked advice. I was beginning to think you are getting “fed up” on my unsolicited counsel but feel complimented to know you now want more of it.

But, leaving the personal side out of it, you know, Red, the smart man is the one who collects ideas from every one he meets, separates the wheat from the chaff and then capitalizes them, and it’s a sincere pleasure for me to know that you’ve at last arrived at the age when you are big enough to admit that when brains were passed around you didn’t get all of ’em.

So you’re wondering what’s the matter with your salesmen, eh? They don’t seem to take things seriously and worry whether they get business or not—always looking forward to pay-day and that’s all—eh, what? All right—your description of their attitude is so good that I believe I know just where the trouble is.

I suppose you were too young at the time to get the lesson, but, Red, your case reminds me of something that used to happen regularly when you were a little boy. Do you remember years ago when you used to have that brindle pup? He wasn’t much to look at—had no pedigree, or anything, but was just plain dog—the kind whose only excuse for living was that he was a playmate of a freckle-faced, red-headed boy. Well, anyway, the little girl next door had a cat for a pet, if you’ll remember. Similarly to the dog, the cat hadn’t taken any blue ribbons and about the only thing she did worth mentioning now, at least, was to notify the family that claimed her, ever so often, that she was the proud mother of a mess, and I say it advisedly, Red, a mess of kittens.

But the Boss of the house didn’t appreciate her being so prolific—not being as interested in cat farms as our old friend Charlie Emery. So ever so often, while you and the neighbor girl were out to a toddle party, her father and myself would sneak down in their basement, ostensibly to look over the last sad remnants of his private stock (which is speaking in an unknown tongue to you now), but primarily to increase the mortality list of the cat specie by holding each kitten in the bottom of a pail of water until eight of their proverbial nine lives had taken flight for cat heaven.

Now, Spud, your pup and Puss, the mother cat, were never what you might call affinities. Even though the two families with whom they were living were always close friends, the same measure of respect and esteem was not shared by Spud and Puss. As a result, every time Spud would spy Puss in the backyard he’d let out a mongrel yelp and start for her with the obvious intention of annihilating her.

Now the thing that used to impress me about this almost daily scene was that when Puss didn’t have any kittens—no family responsibilities, as it were—when Spud rushed for her she’d turn tail and do a double-quick for the nearest tree, registering all the fear and retiring qualities that we come to expect in the female of the species.

But when Puss had kittens, still undrowned, particularly when she was enjoying a siesta in their presence, Spud could make his flying start with all the gusto and bluff that is common to cur tactics, but when he arrived at the point of contact Puss would bow her back, never budge an inch and show all the courage of the early Spartans. The result, of course, was that on such occasions the fun was all out of the game for Spud and he was clearly “sold” on the proposition that Puss could not be bluffed, and he’d beat a hasty retreat before getting within paw-length of the confident Puss.

Now, Red, that’s all there is to the story, except the moral. Just consider the salient points. Same dog, same cat, same backyard, but different performance. Why, Red, why? Ah!—you’ve got it, I know. Inspiration—that’s it—that’s the word. Puss with kittens had an inspiration that Puss without them didn’t have.

Now, Boy, take this lesson right home with you and apply it to your own problem. What your salesmen lack is inspiration, and you’re the little doctor with the hypodermic to give it to ’em. Of course, it doesn’t apply literally, even though some people do claim that the man with the big family has as many more reasons as he has mouths to feed, why he should make a success, but—I don’t mean it that way, Red—I don’t mean it that way. You must teach your men to speak and feel about your company as “We,” not as “the house.”

Any man with a single spark of ambition should look forward to an eventual goal, considerably farther than the weekly pay-check. His permanency on their payroll and the advancement he should hope to merit, depends entirely upon the combined efforts of the company family. His success is their success, and without favorable results neither he, nor they, can prosper.

Teach ’em, Red—show ’em their responsibility! Fire their minds and hearts with the fact that they’re not working for the company—bless your heart, Boy, they are the company to all intent and purpose on their territory, and either their lackadaisical or their aggressive, businesslike demeanor and actions will be interpreted by their trade exactly as they appear and the company will be so reflected. And when you tell ’em, Red, be sure that the enthusiasm you have, which as you know, is the fuse that ignites opportunity, is showing in your eyes, your face and is reflected from your heart. Enthusiasm—Inspiration. Ah! Red, it’s contagious—show ’em how proud you are to say “We”—show ’em that it’s a privilege to be a part of an organization that holds the place it does in the firmament of a big business. Sell ’em the company idea first—then sell ’em the line.

After that, Red, if I’m not mistaken, you’ll have ’em sitting on the edge of the chair, rarin’ to go, filled with the kind of red-blooded courage that has made American ideas and American ideals a synonym for accomplishment.

If you sell your salesmen all that, Old Top, and keep ’em sold by your living example, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the results they turn in. If that doesn’t work, then the Old Man’s experience with human nature is a failure and he’ll be disappointed in his own judgment and the ability of his fire-brand son.

Keep me posted—I like it.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Has Told Dad of His Latest Pet “Peeve”

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have a lot of fun before we open each of your letters, speculating on whether or not you’re going to tell us of some unusual accomplishment, or air a pet peeve. So far, the peeves you’ve aired have been so imaginary that we have enjoyed them just as much as your successes, so don’t harbor the thought that we’d attempt to discourage your letter-writing style for a moment. In fact, Mother thinks that my chief enjoyment these days is giving you advice in answer to the problems you mention and I guess she’s not so far off, at that—Mother never is, you know.

So you’re all “het up” and about ready to quit over the fact that the boss has put a “District Manager” or “General Man” over you, eh? You’re not going to stand for all this “supervision;” if you’re not capable of running your branch and working direct with Chicago, you want to know it—eh? And especially, do you want ’em to know that you’re every bit as capable as the fellow they picked out as your so-called superior—and just where do they get all these new-fangled notions about supervision. Of course, Mr. So and So is a nice fellow personally, but you just don’t intend to be bossed by anyone except the General Sales Manager himself and this and that, and this and that, and this and that!!! Whew! Gee! but our cat’s got a long tail.

You know, Red, really you furnish me a lot of amusement. All I have to do to thoroughly enjoy myself after reading a letter like yours is to light up an old jimmy-pipe, get in the old arm chair, close my eyes and live over again the old days when you were a little shaver about nine years old. Whenever that white-headed brother of yours would get into a game of marbles or a checker game with you and Junior would begin to get a little the best of you, you’d throw one of those red-headed, temperamental fits of yours, kick over the checker-board, throw away your marbles, toss that vermillion mane in the air, chew up a couple of lead pencils and swear by all the by-laws of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer that you’d be tetotally dod-buttered and ding-busted if you’d ever play a game with him again.

The amusing part about it, Red, was that it was only a brain storm that I used to attribute to your general fiery disposition, for in less than five minutes you’d forgotten all the vindictive utterances and were playing with the brother again just as sweet and happy as you please.

Yes, it was funny, Boy, and I used to get many a good laugh, but Red, when you put one of ’em on paper at your age, I’ll have to admit the only way I get a laugh is to try to think of you as a kid. As a kid, it was truly laughable, but for a fellow as big and as old as you are now—LONG PANTS—hair on your upper lip and wearing a vest n’everything—on the level Red, you’re as funny as an epileptic fit—you’re pitiful!

Now listen, Old Top, before you make up your mind to walk out and leave the company lying on its back gasping—just sit down a minute and let’s talk this over. You’ve got all the confidence in the world in the “Big Boss” haven’t you? You think pretty well of his judgment and wouldn’t put yours up as being superior to it for a minute, now would you? Of course not! Now just let this thought ooze into that corrugated cast-iron brain of yours—your company isn’t running a peanut stand any more—they might have been small enough one day when the Boss himself could put up the window-shades and sweep out the office every night, but that time has passed, Boy, that day is gone.

Admitting that, doesn’t it occur to you that the Boss has to have a little help in running the business? No one ever made a success of any business if he didn’t attend to it; if he didn’t know what was going on all the time. You’d think anyone a lunatic who expected you to sell all the goods handled through your branch, deliver them yourself and do all the billing. You’d say it just couldn’t be done, which is true and then you’d go on and sketch how you’d organize a force to do all of it with your help, of course, and you’d know what’s going on every minute.

All right—now doesn’t it dawn on you that you are expecting the Big Boss to be as ridiculous as the suggestion about your doing all the work in your branch, when you voice those one-quarter of one per cent sentiments, criticising him for calling in help to handle a far more complex problem than your little unit?

The General Sales Manager of a company like yours, which does business in all parts of the world, has a pretty big task cut out for him. You may be a conscientious, intelligent, hard-working manager, but you’re human, Red, and being human, you’re not always one hundred per cent right and it’s his job to know all about you and the way you’re handling your business, all the time. You’re not foolish enough to think he can keep in as close touch as would be necessary to know all these things, with scores of branches, are you? Of course not! Well, all right then, just how is he going to do it? You know the answer just as well as I do—so granting that help is necessary and that he has to have someone to be his “eyes” in the field—who’s going to do it and what would YOU call the position? The answer is obvious—he must have “District Managers” and if you were the Boss just who would you pick as a District Manager? I know just what you’re going to say, so I’ll say it first. Of course, he could pick the oldest managers on the force—and their experience would make good District Managers of them—mind you, but that would be wishing an awful hard job on those old fellows who deserve to take it easier than they could on a District Manager’s job. The older managers have arrived at a place in life where they don’t want to spend fifteen nights out of thirty on a Pullman and you cannot blame ’em.

The District Manager’s title may sound awfully nice, but it’s no flowery bed of ease, Red, believe me. All right then, if that’s impractical, what is the answer? I’ll tell you—they pick men who have had a broad experience in the game; men who have had good reputations as good housekeepers; men who know how to analyze branch house expense as well as sales results; men who are so constituted that they can give REAL HELP to a manager who is intelligent enough to use the experience and advice that is thus afforded. It’s no reflection against your intelligence and ability to have one of ’em over you—why bless your old red-headed soul, the only man in this life who don’t need supervision, that I know of, is a wooden Indian in front of a cigar store. He’s bolted down—no brains—just a wooden man! Why even the officers of a company have supervision in the board of directors and back of the board are the stockholders, and boy, they’re some supervisors.

And Red, don’t let anyone of human intelligence overhear you question the ability of the man supervising—don’t you know when you do that, you’re questioning the judgment of the Big Boss himself and Boy, you mustn’t do that because you’re old enough to know better. Just put this in your pipe, Old Top, anybody nowadays who’s holding a job that requires ability, has got it tucked away around his system some place, I’ll admit that sometimes it’s pretty hard for a youngster to see, but it’s there, Boy, it’s there. Some day you’ll be a District Manager if you’ll just quit standing on your own foot.

After thinking over what I’ve said, if you still feel like you did when you wrote your letter, go ahead and send in your resignation—they’ll accept it and not pass any dividends either. I’m hoping however, that your letter was just a recurrence of one of your childish temperamental fits and if so, I’ll laugh at it just like I used to. If not, I suppose I’ll have to go down and try and find a job for you driving a hack, so please don’t make it hard for

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Has Met the Girl—He Sounds Dad Out on Matrimony

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have had several executive sessions since receiving your last letter, and you can well imagine that I’ve received a lot of “advice” from her as to just how to answer it, but it’s no use—the Good Lord so constituted me that I have to “speak right out in meeting” if at all, so if I’m going to advise you along the line you requested, I’ve just got to tell you how I feel about it without reservation, so here goes!

You didn’t tell us much in your letter about how far this affair of yours had gone and it makes it a little difficult on that account. You talk like there’s nothing “serious” yet and that you’re just wondering about certain “features” of Life’s greatest adventure. Well, I hope you’re not kidding the “old man,” for I’m too old a bird to know that if you’re all through with the overture, prologue and the medley of popular airs between the first and second act, that it’s too late for me to try and break up the party, so if you’re telling me the truth, the few words of advice I’ll give may fall on fertile ground, but if not, Boy, it may sting a little, but anyway, you’ve brought it on yourself, as Delilah remarked to Sampson when he started the rough house in the Temple.

I have half a notion to send your letter back to you just to show you how little you really told us about Her. About all I’ve been able to gather, after reading your letter about five times, is that she’s about the finest thing in petticoats that ever wielded a lipstick; comes from “an awfully old and respected family;” is the only child; has been raised a pet; is beautiful and accomplished (presume you mean by that, she can dress herself with the assistance of a couple of maids) and her “old man” has oodles of money. Humph! somehow that description don’t thrill me a bit!

Now, Red, before you begin to get red above the collar-band, just let me say in passing that I don’t mean anything personal about the girl at all—she cannot help it because she’s that way, and there’s just a chance that I’ve got her all wrong. No doubt she’s all you said about her and then some, but if she is, I’m just wondering if you accidentally picked up a white chip on the floor, or just how you came to get a hand in the game?

Not that there’s anything about it that isn’t good enough for anyone of that description—no—far be it from me, Red, to run down the quality of your personal line, but your description doesn’t mean anything to a fellow who has lived long enough to know that there’s something more to this life than moonlight and honeysuckle. I can almost hear you say that the “old man” is hard-boiled, maybe I am, but there’s a practical side to this matrimonial game and it is a pretty good thing to consider seriously before you go into the musical comedy features.

Now let’s discuss this thing from a sensible standpoint. This “old and respected family” business is a nice thing, Red, but it will not add a single item to the order you get from the wholesale grocer around the corner: What does she know about sewing buttons on a union suit so you will not have to use up a whole card of safety pins? I’ve found that knowledge fairly essential in cold weather.

She’s an “only child”—a “pet,” eh? Well, that’s fine, Red. It’s nice to know that you will not have a couple of “old maid” sisters-in-law to help you ride range and boss the outfit, but does she show any signs of being ambitious enough to get up at 6:30 A. M. and cook breakfast for you, or do you think you’d have to go around to the Greasy Greek’s for your coffee and? Maybe that thought hasn’t occurred to you, especially when standing under a Southern Moon when the Zephyrs waft the odor of the Lilacs; but, Boy, the Zephyrs should some day waft the odor of a few pieces of bacon with you on the receiving end in your own dining room, and you’ll appreciate that more and more as your pompadour recedes.

I like that part of your description where you say she’s beautiful and accomplished. That means a lot, Boy, but am wondering if you mean it the way I’d like to believe. God never made anything more beautiful than a good woman. She’s His Masterpiece, all right—there’s no doubt about that, but some folks’ idea of beauty is different from mine. The cleverest word painter who ever wrote a massage cream ad, couldn’t commence to picture that beauty—that beggars description—that rapturous smile that is born of the very whispering of angels which lights a mother’s face when she hears the first cry of her new-born babe. Beauty—why, Boy—the symmetry or form and feature of a Venus pales into insignificance beside it, and the funny thing about it is no one woman, or type, has a corner on it. Of course, you’ve never dreamed of that example, but it’s coming to you, Boy, it’s coming to you.

And “accomplished”—well, what do you mean by that? Has she taken a post-graduate course in Victrola lessons, can toddle and sing in Society’s amateur “Follies,” or do you mean you think she could some day referee a bout between a couple of lusty-lunged seven and ten-year-old boys, croon a lullaby to a nursing baby and keep the Sunday roast from burning, all at the same time? I’ll say you want to get one that’s “accomplished,” but it’s a damsite more important to visualize just what they could “accomplish” later, than what has gone before.

Note you say “her old man has oodles of money,” but you forgot to mention whether he was a burglar, a politician, or a flat owner—not that there’s very much difference, but I was sort of curious. Anyway, as I see it, that’s the least important thing in your description. The “old man” may be a decent sort, after all, and may have got it by marriage or from one of Ryan’s tips on the stock market, so it may not be his fault. At least, I don’t see how that’s going to affect you in the least. I know you well enough to know, Red, that you’ll never become one of those parasites who, on account of having money in the family, find their most arduous duty the daily airing of a poodle dog on a string—neither can I picture you under any circumstances paying your cigarette bills with other than the coin you had personally earned, so I’m not going to comment on that feature.

Now listen, Red, I expect you think that I’ve been pretty caustic in the foregoing, and in order to let you win an argument I’ll agree; but, Boy, this marriage thing is a more serious problem than you think it is. I appreciate that there are a great many requisites to look for in a wife that I haven’t enumerated above. It goes without saying that you will choose eventually a girl fully worthy of you in intelligence, beauty, lineage and what not, but I do want you to come down out of the clouds—realize that there’s something more to it than love and kisses and a cottage.

Remember the girl you choose will sit across the table from you for thousands of dinners. She may look awfully good in a party dress, but will she show up as well in a Mother Hubbard with her hair in curl papers? She may make an exquisite Welsh rarebit, but can she brew a real cup of coffee? She may be charming in the receiving line at an afternoon function, but can she build a satisfactory pair of rompers?

I’ve sort of born down on one feature, Red—I’ve done so advisedly, because in my opinion the deciding question, after all is said and done, is, “What kind of a mother will she make for my children?” If you can honestly answer that question and give a favorable one, the rest will take care of themselves, Boy—the rest will take care of themselves.

And, after reading this, Red, if the idea should come to you that maybe the “old man” don’t know what he’s talking about, just stop a minute—pause, Boy, and consider that it took some little picker to choose one who has come up to every one of these qualifications—your Mother! and the other half of the sketch knows that he’ll always be proud to sign himself

Your loving,

“DAD.”

The Boy Has Been Bragging a Little

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have had quite a discussion tonight about your last letter and we’ve just about come to the conclusion that you’re eating too much rooster meat, or something else with similar effect, for your last letter certainly shows that you’re getting “cocky.” Of course, you may have reason to be, on account of something you’re holding back. Maybe Mother and I don’t quite appreciate just how important you really are, but anyway the local cigar man hasn’t displayed any cigar boxes with your pictures on ’em yet, so we’re forced to assume that you’re just feeling your oats a bit.

I notice that you’ve arrived at the place where you complain quite a little about the damphool things the Chicago office writes you about and the asininity of some of their requests and plans. It seems they’ve insulted your intelligence by questioning some of your moves and that they certainly have had enough experience with you to know that you wouldn’t do anything but one way, which, of course, is the right way, and you’re getting tired of being bothered with so many bunglers and policies.

Now, Red, if you think that your otherwise good letter is going to kindle a single spark of sympathy in the Old Man, you’re just as mistaken as if you’d torn your shirt.

The first thing I wonder about is, just how do you get that way? I suppose you’ve been working pretty hard, your digestion is bad, or else you’ve quit smoking or something else has turned up to change the even alto of your way, because the symptoms you are displaying are not at all new to me, or anyone else who has gotten over the college yell days of business life. No—we’ve all gone thru it, Boy, we’ve all gone thru it, and the only question in my mind in your case is, will it turn out to be only baby rash, or a genuine case of the measles?

You know, ever since Hector was a pup, pretty nearly every five-fingered snoozer has sometime or other in his life arrived at a place where he thought everything he did was one hundred per cent right and he formed a hundred and five proof pity for the poor unfortunate numskulls who didn’t agree with him. It’s a sort of childhood disease that has to be gone thru, like mumps, chicken-pox or hog cholera. The majority of the victims recover after a very brief illness and there have been but few cases where it actually killed the victim. However, there are numerous cases on record where it has necessitated an operation to remove the ego and quite a few instances where it has left the victim in such shape that they had to seek out-door employment like ringing up fares on the back platform of a street car, or riding on top of a hansom cab.

Now Mother and I are not very much concerned in your case, because we know you have a rugged constitution that will pull you thru the crisis, but we’re wondering if it wouldn’t do you a little good to sort of hold up the mirror and let you see just how ludicrous you look to the rest of the world while you’re suffering from this malady. Remember how funny you looked when you had the mumps and when you were all broken out with Liberty measles? Well, Boy, if that brought the smiles of the onlookers, your present indisposition makes ’em burst out laughing.

Now listen, Red, your entire trouble can be diagnosed as just a perverted point of view and every time I use that expression I am reminded of a call I once made at a hospital when the nurse and the doctor called me in to get my first peep at a little squirming mite of humanity that afterwards learned to call me Dad. In my enthusiasm and paternal pride, I exclaimed “Some girl” but the doctor just shook his head and said, “No, you’re mistaken—a boy.” Now Red, I wasn’t exactly an idiot. I knew more or less about babies and all that, but the reason the doctor and I didn’t agree was purely point of view. He knew, whereas I was only jumping at conclusions.

But to go back to your symptoms. Of course, I know you’re going to tell me where you can point out where you were asked by Chicago to furnish information, or do something that you knew wasn’t what they wanted—was nonsensical, etc., and I’ll agree with you—now—think a minute! Chicago don’t claim to be above errors, mistakes and cases of bad judgment. Of course not, and do you know why they make no such claims? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because they’ve gone thru and gotten over the same illness you have. They know as long as they are dealing with the human equation, errors will creep in, but haven’t you noticed, now be honest Red, that they don’t jump at conclusions like you do and doesn’t it occur to you that if they have found clairvoyance impractical as compared to cold fact, that they will naturally ask more questions, demand clearer explanations and expect you to conduct your end in a more self-explanatory fashion than otherwise?

The trouble with you, Old Top, is that when you get a letter from Chicago requesting a little, simple thing and especially if they don’t go to the trouble to explain every reason why they want it, which they shouldn’t have to do, you immediately begin to hunt for holes in it. Instead of thinking along the lines of how quick you can comply, you begin to wonder if there’s a hidden meaning in it; if they couldn’t get the same thing some other place, etc., and you burn up ten times as much energy and write more letters trying not to do what is wanted than you would if you’d just go about and do it.

You know, Red, when you were a little fellow you had the same symptoms, but I thought you’d outgrow ’em. When you were about nine years old and would do something that I thought you should be disciplined for slightly, I would frequently order you to go over and sit down in a certain chair. After so much hesitation you’d start, but you’d take a circuitous route, knock over the piano bench, kick the cat and eventually, if I kept after you, you’d arrive at the chair designated, but afterward, when in lower mathematics you learned the axiom that the shortest distance between two given points was a straight line, I thought you had gotten over it, but I guess not—eh, what?

Now to make you feel a little better, I’ll admit that men higher up than you often get the wrong point of view and I’ll illustrate. One time information came to the home office that a certain competitor was putting a special pack on the market in a certain large city, but not letting it be known that it was special by packing it under the same label that they were using all over the country. Naturally, this was important and needed quick investigation. Chicago wired their manager in that city to pick up some samples of that brand and send in immediately.

Chicago didn’t go to the trouble to explain their reasons—it wasn’t necessary and long telegrams cost money. A few days later they received a letter from this manager which read something like this: “I received your wire asking me to send you samples of Blank’s Beans. I cannot understand why you should bother me with a request of this kind when all you’d have to do would be to go into any store in Chicago and buy the same thing, therefore, I am not complying with your request.” He even went so far as to send a copy to the Boss expiating on the asininity of the dumb-bell making such a request and, of course, expecting quite a pat on the back for his forethought.

I guess I don’t need to finish the story; you can imagine the Golden Text that the Boss thought of after reading the letter, particularly considering that it was his suggestion in the first place.

Now Red, this means only one thing—if you’re loyal (and you are) don’t look for the holes in every proposition that’s put up to you until you arrive at a position where your chief duties are to look for those holes. As long as you’re working under someone else, give your superior the benefit of the doubt. He may make some mistakes, but don’t be trying to read his mind. Don’t get cynical—give the other fellow credit for having a reason for asking what he does. Get out your old yellow copy of Elbert Hubbard’s preachment “The Message to Garcia” and note how that fellow, when given a task, didn’t look for the holes in it, or question the motive, but went ahead and did it.

There’s a lesson in it for you, Boy—get it!

Your loving,

“DAD.”

Dad Warns of the Evil Spirit That Whispers “You Haven’t Time”

Dear Hal:

Mother and I arrived home without mishap and she said I should write you at once and let you know that we arrived safely and to tell you again how much we appreciated the good time that you showed us on our visit.

Am mighty glad I went to the office with you Saturday and attended your meeting with your salesmen. You were so busy just about the time I had to run away to make my train that I didn’t get to tell you several little points that I picked up, but I guess I can tell you just as well in this letter.

You probably noticed that I made it my business to sort of “mill” around with your various men and engage them in conversation. I want to congratulate you on the class of men you have gotten together. They’re a credit to you, Boy, and with that bunch of enthusiastic live-wires, I don’t think you need to worry a bit about your results just as long as you direct them properly.

There was one thing that struck me very forcibly as I talked to your various salesmen. Every one of them had a great big territory and they freely admitted that they weren’t calling on all their prospects; said they didn’t have time and they admitted that they picked out the best and biggest prospects where they were pretty sure to land an order and then rushed on to another town and went through the same performance.

Now, Red, I don’t blame your men for that condition—I think they are sincere in thinking they are doing just right, particularly because you have so routed them. Neither do I blame you, so all-fired much, because you just haven’t given it enough thought so far, but listen—

Years ago, where I was raised, it was a great country for raspberries. As you know, the berry season is a pretty short one and the farmers raising them had to depend to no small extent on hiring a gang of boys just out of school to pick them. All us fellows were pretty anxious about that time of the year to earn a little pocket money and we descended on those berry patches like a swarm of bees. Usually, the days were pretty hot and when night came, we were a pretty tired bunch of Indians and although we worked pretty hard we hadn’t earned a great deal for we were paid so much per quart.

One of the boys used to turn in about twice as many berries every day as the rest of us and the farmer used to tell us every night the reason he did so was because he put more berries in the pail than he did in his mouth. Of course, that line of talk was pretty good berry patch repartee, but it set me thinking because I knew I was just as quick as the other fellow; that I worked as hard and I didn’t like raspberries anyway, so I knew I wasn’t wasting any on the consumer’s pack method, so, one night I caught up with the star picker on his way home and asked him for the secret. He looked at me and chuckled and said, “Come on home with me and get my Dad to tell you.” This aroused my thirteen year old curiosity, so I went along with him. When we got home we found his father on the back porch and he said, “Dad, tell my pal here what you told me about picking berries.”

It happened that this boy’s Dad was one of those fellows who knew all about boys, so he didn’t answer the question right off, but first began by talking regular boy’s lore—all about swimmin’ holes, how the fish were bitin’, where we’d be liable to find an eagle’s nest and a lot of the kind of things boys like us were interested in—you know Red, the kind of a Dad who just had you hanging on to every little thing he said and just making you wish you could go tramping with a Dad like that and the first thing I knew—before I realized it—he had me telling him what success I was having at berry picking.

After I’d described my methods and told him how hard I worked, he said, “Son, now listen to me, for this applies to berry picking as well as lots of other things—when you go into a berry patch, you’ll find lots of boys running here and there looking for bushes where the berries grow the thickest. After picking a few minutes they get the idea that a bush a little farther down offers greater possibilities and they run over to it and keep on repeating the performance all day long. When night comes, they are tired out from their exertions and strange to say, they haven’t many berries in their pails either. Now the way to do—when you go into a berry patch, stop at the first bush you come to and don’t leave it until you’ve picked every berry—don’t run aimlessly from one bush to another, but do as I say and when night comes you’ll find you not only will have a full pail many times over, but you will not be so tired, because you haven’t expended that energy of yours running around so much. In other words, “stick to your bush, son, stick to your bush.”