s. It is bad manners! The committee is so mortified, for all the
invitations are out. It waits.

Moses is eighty-six and the committee 'phones over, "Moses, can you
attend next Thursday?" And Moses says, "No, boys, you'll just have to
hold that funeral until I get this work pushed off so I can attend it.
I haven't even time to think about getting old."

The committee waits. Moses is ninety and rushed more than ever. He is
doing ten men's work and his friends all say he is killing himself. But
he makes the committee wait.

Moses is ninety-five and burning the candle at both ends. He is a
hundred. And the committee dies!

Moses goes right on shouting, "Onward!" He is a hundred and ten. He is
a hundred and twenty. Even then I read, "His eye was not dim, nor his
natural force abated." He had not time to stop and abate.

So God buried him. The committee was dead. O, friends, this is not
irreverence. It is joyful reverence. It is the message to all of us, Go
on south to the greater things, and get so enthused and absorbed in our
going that we'll fool the "committee."

All the multitudes of the Children of Israel died in the Wilderness.
They were afraid to go on south. Only two of them went on south--Joshua
and Caleb. They put the giants out of business.

The Indians once owned America. But they failed to go on south. So
another crop of Americans came into the limelight. If we modern
Americans do not go on south we will join the Indians, the auk and the
dodo.

The "Sob Squad"

I am so sorry for the folks who quit, retire, "get on the shelf" or
live on "borrowed time."

They generally join the "sob squad."

They generally discover the world is "going to the dogs." They cry on
my shoulder, no matter how good clothes I wear.

They tell me nobody uses them right. The person going on south has not
time to look back and see how anybody uses him.

They say nobody loves them. Which is often a fact. Nobody loves the
clock that runs down.

They say, "Only a few more days of trouble, only a few more
tribulations, and I'll be in that bright and happy land." What will
they do with them when they get them there? They would be dill pickles
in the heavenly preserve-jar.

They say, "I wish I were a child again. I was happy when I was a child
and I'm not happy now. Them was the best days of my life childhood's
palmy days."

Wake up! Your clock has run down. Anybody who wants to be a child again
is confessing he h