“Oh,” he answered, smiling; “yes, I had forgotten; why, of course, that is a railroad man’s business, you know—to help everybody who needs help.”
He waved his hand and disappeared up the stairway that led to the offices.
And it came to me that he had forgotten the incident so soon, simply because to help had become the habit of his life. He may read this, and he may not. There he was—big, bold, bluff and bronzed, his hair just touched with the frost of years, and beneath his brass buttons a heart beating with a desire to bless and benefit. I do not know his name, but the sight of the man, carrying a child on each arm, their arms encircling his neck in perfect faith, their long journey done, and he turning them over in safety to their Grandmother, was something to renew one’s faith in humanity.
If you answer that corporations have no souls, I’ll say: “Friend, you were never more mistaken in your life. The business that has no soul soon ceases to exist; and the success of a company or corporation turns on the kind of soul it possesses. Soul is necessary to service. Courtesy, kindness, honesty and efficiency are tangible soul-assets; and all good railroad men know it.”
By taking thought you can add cubits to your stature.
To stand by the open grave of one you have loved, and feel the sky shut down over less worth in the world is the supreme test.
You must live and face the day, and face each succeeding day, realizing that “the moving finger writes, and having writ moves on, nor all your tears shall blot a line of it.”
Heroes are born, but it is calamity that discovers them.
Once in Western Kansas, in the early Eighties, I saw a loaded four-horse wagon skid and topple in going across a gully.
The driver sprang from his seat and tried to hold the wagon upright.
The weight was too great for his strength, powerful man though he was.
The horses swerved down the ditch instead of crossing it, and the overturning wagon caught the man and pinned him to the ground.
Half a dozen of us sprang from our horses. After much effort the tangled animals were unhitched and the wagon was righted.
In the wagon were the wife and six children, the oldest child a boy of fifteen. All were safely caught in the canvas top and escaped unhurt. We camped there—not knowing what else to do.