al for him. "But a fellow ought to stick to a thing, whether
he likes it or not!" If one must be dogmatic, then I say, "A fellow
should never work at anything he does not like." One of the things in
our case which brought such constant criticism from relatives and
friends was that we changed around so much. Thank God we did! It took
Carl Parker until he was over thirty before he found just the work he
loved the most and in which his soul was content--university work. And
he was thirty-seven before he found just the phase of economic study
that fired him to his full enthusiasm--his loved field of the
application of psychology to economics. And some one would have had him
stick to engineering because he started in engineering!

He hurt his knee broad-jumping in his Freshman year at college, and
finally had to leave, going to Phoenix, Arizona, and then back to the
Parker ranch at Vacaville for the better part of a year. The family was
away during that time, and Carl ran the place alone. He returned to
college in August, 1898, this time taking up mining. After a year's
study in mining he wanted the practical side. In the summer of 1899 he
worked underground in the Hidden Treasure Mine, Placer county,
California. In 1900 he left college again, going to the gold and copper
mines of Rossland, British Columbia. From August, 1900, to May, 1901, he
worked in four different mines. It was with considerable feeling of
pride that he always added, "I got to be machine man before I quit."

It was at that time that he became a member of the Western Federation of
Miners--an historical fact which inimical capitalists later endeavored
to make use of from time to time to do him harm. How I loved to listen
by the hour to the stories of those grilling days--up at four in the
pitch-dark and snow, to crawl to his job, with the blessing of a dear
old Scotch landlady and a "pastie"! He would tell our sons of tamping in
the sticks of dynamite, till their eyes bulged. The hundreds of times
these last six months I've wished I had in writing the stories of those
days--of all his days, from early Vacaville times on! Sometimes it would
be an old Vacaville crony who would appear, and stories would fly of
those boy times--of the exploits up Putah Creek with Pee Wee Allen; of
the prayer-meeting when Carl bet he could out-pray the minister's son,
and won; of the tediously thought-out assaults upon an ancient hired man
on the place, that would fill a book a