ember of this
multitude of families living on his property needed it more than did the
heir, and there and then he made up his mind that he would leave them in
quiet possession of his estate."

The reporter who related the story said that the man had been called a
fool, and commented, "He was God's fool."

Then he said that the incident he had related would have been
unbelievable if it had not been so well attested. But why unbelievable?
Is it because of the common idea that "every man has his price," that it
is unthinkable that a sane man would let a fortune that he could claim
honestly slip through his fingers?

Perhaps it is true that every man has his price. However, if this snarl
of the pessimist is to have universal application, the price must be
understood to be--in many instances--not selfish gratification, but the
opportunity for courageous service. There are men and women who can be
won by such an opportunity who cannot be reached by any argument of mere
private advantage. Such people silence the complaints of the croaker and
command the confidence of those who are struggling to help their
fellows.

Louis Agassiz, the naturalist, was such a man. "I have no time to make
money," was his remark when urged by a friend to turn aside from the
important work of the moment to an easy, lucrative task. His reason was
thus explained at another time: "I have made it the rule of my life to
abandon any intellectual pursuit the moment it becomes commercially
valuable." It was his idea that there were many who would then be
willing to carry on work he had begun.

A contrast is presented by the famous inventor who, early in life, made
it a rule never to give himself to any activity in which there was no
prospect of financial gain. His first question was not, "Does the public
need this invention?" but "Is there money in it?" Having answered to his
satisfaction, he was ready to go ahead.

The world could not well have spared either of these men, for both
rendered valuable service. But, judging from the stories of their
careers, there was more joy in the life of the naturalist, who,
satisfied to earn a living, thought most of serving his fellows, than in
the life of the inventor before whose eyes the dollar continually loomed
large. The counting-house measure of life is not the most satisfying nor
is it the most useful.

That was the notion of Jacob Riis, of whom a minister who was devoting
his life to the interest of yo