our son and fight his battles for him, you will have a
weakling on your hands at twenty-one.

"My life is a wreck," said the dying Cyrus W. Field, "my fortune gone,
my home dishonored. Oh, I was so unkind to Edward when I thought I was
being kind. If I had only had firmness enough to compel my boys to
earn their living, then they would have known the meaning of money."
His table was covered with medals and certificates of honor from many
nations, in recognition of his great work for civilization in mooring
two continents side by side in thought, of the fame he had won and
could never lose. But grief shook the sands of life as he thought only
of the son who had brought disgrace upon a name before unsullied; the
wounds were sharper than those of a serpent's tooth.

During the great financial crisis of 1857 Maria Mitchell, who was
visiting England, asked an English lady what became of daughters when
no property was left them. "They live on their brothers," was the
reply. "But what becomes of the American daughters," asked the English
lady, "when there is no money left?" "They earn it," was Miss
Mitchell's reply.

Men who have been bolstered up all their lives are seldom good for
anything in a crisis. When misfortune comes, they look around for
somebody to lean upon. It the prop is not there, down they go. Once
down, they are as helpless as capsized turtles, or unhorsed men in
armor. Many a frontier boy has succeeded beyond all his expectations
simply because all props were early knocked out from under him and he
was obliged to stand upon his own feet.

"A man's best friends are his ten fingers," said Robert Collyer, who
brought his wife to America in the steerage.

There is no manhood mill which takes in boys and turns out men. What
you call "no chance" may be your only chance. Don't wait for your
place to be made for you; make it yourself. Don't wait for somebody to
give you a lift; lift yourself. Henry Ward Beecher did not wait for a
call to a big church with a large salary. He accepted the first
pastorate offered him, in a little town near Cincinnati. He became
literally the light of the church, for he trimmed the lamps, kindled
the fires, swept the rooms, and rang the bell. His salary was only
about $200 a year,--but he knew that a fine church and great salary can
not make a great man. It was work and opportunity that he wanted. He
felt that if there were anything in him work would bring it out.