the real Now, rather than the pictured Tomorrow that never
comes.

It's mighty interesting to watch the crowd go by and speculate on their
movements.

Save up your pennies, measure everything by the dollar standard, think
dollars, dream dollars, work, slave, push for the dollars and you will
build a fortune. You will never have peace or recreation, or joy; you
will live only in hope of a some day when you will retire. That's the
way the millionaires travel life's highway.

Some day the paper will announce the death of those millionaires and
then the dollars will be blown in by reckless heirs, and so the grinding
wheels roll on.

Surely there are many ways of looking at things. Surely there is much of
interest in the crowd. Surely there is an unending fund from which to
speculate, in that crowd way down on the street below my window.

What passions, what hopes, what joys, what sorrows, are in the hearts of
that hurrying, worrying crowd.

What noise this din of traffic makes, what activity man has stirred up.

A picture, a drama, a tragedy, a comedy, all these I see in the human
ants that run along below the hive where I sit and write these lines.

The phone rings and my little Nancy Lou's voice says, "Daddy, will you
please bring me a pencil and a tablet with lines on it."

So I must needs stop this, whatever you may call it, and push through
the crowd to get that tablet with "lines on it" for my Nancy Lou; and
there is some feeling of happiness and content and peace in Daddy's
heart as he lays down his pen, for Daddy is going Home, and that word
means a lot in his little family, where they all say "Daddy" instead of
Papa or Father.

DOING THINGS TWICE

A Common Habit That Saps Nerve Power

It is hard enough to do duty once, but doubly hard when you anticipate
mentally everything you have to do tomorrow.

This doing things twice is a habit easily acquired if you don't watch
out, and it means wasted energy.

I have just read the experience of a housewife who was resting on a
couch reading; her eye caught sight of a book lying on the floor across
the room.

Instantly her mindometer, if I may coin a word, registered, "when you
get up, pick up that book."

She went on reading, but her mind was not on the magazine she held, but
on that book on the floor.

So obsessed did she become that she was miserable until she got up and
picked up the book.

I was talking with a woman who was resting on he