Modern Americans Part 6

Circular No. 400:

The use of profane or abusive language by foremen or others in authority, when addressing subordinates, will not be tolerated.

Geo. W. Goethals, Chairman and Chief Engineer.

Some of the foreman did not talk much for a while, they had been so used to swearing, but the Colonel's orders were obeyed.

The work then moved along smoothly and Colonel Goethals was looking forward to the end of his labors, when one day an engineer on the Panama Railroad paid no attention to the signals and let his train run into the rear coaches of another train, killing the conductor.

This engineer was drunk, and it is against the rules of any railroad for an intoxicated person to be in its employ. Colonel Goethals had the engineer arrested and put in jail. However, the man belonged to a labor union, and this union sent a committee demanding that he release the engineer by seven o'clock that evening. If he did not, they would order all the men working along the ca.n.a.l to strike. This meant that the work on the ca.n.a.l would stop, and it might be weeks before it would be resumed. They would wait, they said, for his answer until seven o'clock that evening. Colonel Goethals listened to the committee, then shook hands with them and went to his home.

Seven o'clock came, then eight. The committee was worried. They telephoned Colonel Goethals and asked for his answer. He replied in surprise that they had it. They said it had not reached them. He reminded them that they intended to strike at seven o'clock if the man was not released, and then said, "It is now eight o'clock; if you call the penitentiary, you will find the man is still there."

The leaders did not want to strike. They had expected to make Colonel Goethals do what they wanted. Then they said, "Do you want to tie up the work down here, Colonel"?

"I am not tying it up," he told them. "You are. You forget that this is not a private enterprise, but a government job."

When asked what he was going to do, his answer was: "Any man not at work tomorrow morning will be given his transportation to the United States. He will go out on the first steamer and he will never come back."

There was only one man who had failed to report, and he sent a doctor's certificate saying he was too sick to work. There were no more strikes.

In May, 1913, a Congressman introduced a bill into the House of Representatives providing for the promotion of Colonel Goethals from Colonel to Major-General as a reward for his services in building the ca.n.a.l. At once Colonel Goethals wrote the gentleman saying he appreciated his kindness but he did not believe he should be singled out for such an honor. There were many men, he said, who had done great work in Panama, and they, as well as himself, felt repaid for their services not only by their salary but by the honor of being connected with such a wonderful task. He said also that the United States Government had educated and trained him so it was but right that it should have his services. The bill was withdrawn and Colonel Goethals was satisfied.

When we look at the life of this successful man it seems as if all the years before his going to the Ca.n.a.l Zone were but a preparation for the great feat that awaited him there. He was always eager to work, and when he was a little boy in New York City he earned his first money by doing errands. At that time he was eleven years of age, but by the time he was fifteen he was the cas.h.i.+er and bookkeeper in a market. Other boys spent their time playing ball, but he worked after school and every Sat.u.r.day. He was paid five dollars a week. His first hope was to be a physician, but the steady indoor work had weakened his health and he decided to become a soldier. He thought the excellent military training would make him well and strong, so he pa.s.sed the examinations for West Point Military Academy.

As he knew no one there, George Goethals' entry into the famous school was but little noticed. However, as the months and years pa.s.sed, every one there was proud to claim him as a pupil or cla.s.smate.

There are three great honors to be won at West Point. Any man who wins one of these is called an honor man, and the entire school looks up to him. The first honor is to have the highest grade as a student. The second is to be named a leader and an officer over all the rest of the cla.s.s. The third is to be chosen for an office by one's cla.s.smates because they like him. George W. Goethals won all three of these. He was an honor man in his studies; his teachers chose him as one of the four captains taken from his cla.s.s; and this same cla.s.s elected him president in his senior year.

With such a school record it is not at all surprising that Colonel Goethals made steady progress in the army and so was considered by President Roosevelt to be the one person who could build the ca.n.a.l.

Since its completion, this able soldier has continued to serve his country, and when President Wilson declared we were in a state of war with Germany, Colonel Goethals was among the first persons summoned to help plan and supervise the great war program; for at the root of his success lies loyalty,--loyalty to his work, to his fellow men, and to the Government of the United States.

_CHILDREN'S PLEDGE_

_I pledge allegiance to my Flag And to the Republic for which it stands; One Nation indivisible, With liberty and justice for all._

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

On one of the more modest streets of Indianapolis there lived, in 1916, an invalid. He was a man sixty-two years of age, with a genial face that had not been hardened by his years of suffering. This man, though living in a modest home and a confirmed invalid, had the rare distinction of being the most beloved man in America. While all cla.s.ses loved him, the children loved him most; and fortunately they did not wait until he was dead to show their love. One of the nice things they used to do was to send him post cards on his birthdays.

Sometimes he would get, on a single birthday, as many as a thousand cards from school children in all parts of the country.

While he could not answer all these cards, he did his best to let them know that he appreciated their kindly attention, as the following letter shows:

"To the School Children of Indianapolis:

"You are conspirators--every one of you, that's what you are! You have conspired to inform the general public of my birthday, and I am already so old that I want to forget all about it. But I will be magnanimous and forgive you, for I know that your intent is really friendly, and to have such friends as you are makes me--don't care how old I am! In fact it makes me so glad and happy that I feel as absolutely young and spry as a very schoolboy--even as one of you--and so to all intents I am.

"Therefore let me be with you throughout the long, lovely day, and share your mingled joys and blessings with your parents and your teachers, and, in the words of little Tim Cratchit: 'G.o.d bless us, every one.'

Ever gratefully and faithfully Your old friend, James Whitcomb Riley."

[Ill.u.s.tration: JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY The "Hoosier" Poet]

On one of his birthdays the school children of Indianapolis decided to march in a great throng by his house and greet him as he sat by his window in an invalid's chair. To their sorrow, when this birthday came it rained hard all day--so hard that they could not think of going out in the storm. But in the high school was a group of pupils who decided that no storm could keep them from showing their love. Accordingly, early in the evening, in the pouring rain, they gathered about his home and in clear, ringing tones sang several of his beautiful poems that had been set to music. So delighted was the great poet that he invited them in and they packed his large sitting room. And what an hour they had together! As they sang he forgot his suffering and was young again. Before they left he recited several of his poems in such a pleasing and impressive manner that I am sure those present will never forget it. One of these, and one which is a great favorite, is ent.i.tled _The Old Swimmin'-Hole_.

THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! Whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of Youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.

But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.

And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be-- But never again will theyr shade shelter me!

And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like, the old swimmin'-hole.

Though Mr. Riley is no longer with us, he still has the same big place in our hearts. Why do we love him so? Is it not because he was able to reach our hearts as few have done; because he was able in all his poems to speak the word that we needed most?

James Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father was a lawyer and farmer combined. While he did the legal work of the village, he also owned a farm at the edge of town. As he was a good speaker he was in constant demand in that part of the state to speak on all kinds of occasions. Generally, on these trips, he took young James along; thus it was that the lad acquired a desire to travel that it took years of his after life to satisfy.

It was from his mother that James received his talent for writing poetry. Though never a poet, she was exceedingly apt, as were all her people, in writing rhymes. The beautiful tributes that Riley, later in life, paid his mother show that she always understood and helped him.

Greenfield, during the boyhood days of Riley, was not the kind of town we think of as producing poets. There were no mountains to kindle the imagination, and no babbling brooks to encourage meditation. In every direction were broad stretches of level land largely covered with forests that still remained untouched. Between these forest stretches were patches of land that were cultivated by hand; for at that time there was but little farm machinery. The greatest single task of the people was to clear the forests and bring the soil under cultivation. Greenfield was, therefore, in part an agricultural town and in part a lumber town. Like most small towns, it was slow-moving and uninteresting. The scenes most frequented were the loafing places.

As there was very little in Greenfield for a lad to do, James' father very often pressed him into service planting and cultivating corn, but he never liked it. While at first we are inclined to regret this, we wonder, had farm life appealed to him, whether he would have made a great poet.

Years later in speaking of his lack of experience in real farm life Mr. Riley says: "Sometimes some real country boy gives me the round turn on some farm points. For instance, here comes one slipping up to me, 'You never lived on a farm,' he says. 'Why not'? says I. 'Well,'

he says, 'a turkey-c.o.c.k _gobbles_, but he doesn't _ky-ouck_ as your poetry says.' He has me right there. It's the turkey-hen that _ky-oucks_. 'Well, you'll never hear another turkey-c.o.c.k of mine _ky-ouckin_,' says I. But generally I hit on the right symbols. I get the frost on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; and I see the frost on the old axe they split the pumpkins with for feed, and I get the smell of the fodder and the cattle, so that it brings up the right picture in the mind of the reader."

James never enjoyed his earlier experiences in school. When he should have been studying his history and arithmetic lessons he busied himself with writing rhymes. Later in life he was very sorry that he had not persevered in his regular school work. There were some things in school, however, that he did exceptionally well. Few boys in that part of the state could recite poetry as well as he, and he was always called on to speak pieces at the school entertainments. Though some of his teachers were inclined to neglect him, he had one teacher who understood him and took a great interest in him. The name of this teacher was Mr. Lee O. Harris, and Mr. Riley never tired of saying good things about him. The fact that Mr. Harris loved literature and had some poetic ability of his own made it possible for him to see in James powers that others did not see, and to encourage him when others discouraged him.

After leaving school James had some experiences that were so unusual and yet so very interesting that I am sure we should be delighted to have him, in his own delightful manner, tell us about them.

"I tried to read law with my father, but I didn't seem to get anywhere. Forgot as diligently as I read; so what was the use. I had learned the sign-painter's trade, but it was hardly what I wanted to do always, and my health was bad--very bad.

"A doctor here in Greenfield advised me to travel. But how in the world was I to travel without money. It was just at this time that the patent-medicine man came along. He needed a man, and I argued this way: 'This man is a doctor, and if I must travel, better travel with a doctor.' He had a fine team and a nice looking lot of fellows with him; so I plucked up courage to ask if I couldn't go along and paint his advertis.e.m.e.nts for him.

"I rode out of town without saying goodbye to anyone, and though my patron wasn't a doctor with a diploma, as I found out, he was a mighty fine man, and kind to his horses, which was a recommendation. He was a man of good habits, and the whole company was made up of good straight boys.

"My experience with him put an idea into my head-- a business idea, for a wonder--and the next year I went down to Anderson and went into partners.h.i.+p with a young fellow to travel. We organized a scheme of advertising with paint, and we called our business 'The Graphic Company.' We had five or six young fellows, all musicians, as well as handy painters, and we used to capture the towns with our music. One fellow could whistle like a nightingale, another sang like an angel, and another played the banjo. I scuffled with the violin and guitar.