hem: that they have overstayed their
time: they have worn out their welcome.

There is no satisfaction that so thoroughly satisfies as that of going
while the going is good.

Still--

The friends of Edward Bok may be right when they said he made a mistake
in his retirement.

However--

As Mr. Dooley says: "It's a good thing, sometimes, to have people size
ye up wrong, Hinnessey: it's whin they've got ye'er measure ye're in
danger."

Edward Bok's friends have failed to get his measure--yet!

They still have to learn what he has learned and is learning every day:
"the joy," as Charles Lamb so aptly put it upon his retirement, "of
walking about and around instead of to and fro."

The question now naturally arises, having read this record thus far: To
what extent, with his unusual opportunities of fifty years, has the
Americanization of Edward Bok gone? How far is he, to-day, an American?
These questions, so direct and personal in their nature, are perhaps
best answered in a way more direct and personal than the method thus far
adopted in this chronicle. We will, therefore, let Edward Bok answer
these questions for himself, in closing this record of his
Americanization.

XXXVIII. Where America Fell Short with Me

When I came to the United States as a lad of six, the most needful
lesson for me, as a boy, was the necessity for thrift. I had been taught
in my home across the sea that thrift was one of the fundamentals in a
successful life. My family had come from a land (the Netherlands) noted
for its thrift; but we had been in the United States only a few days
before the realization came home strongly to my father and mother that
they had brought their children to a land of waste.

Where the Dutchman saved, the American wasted. There was waste, and the
most prodigal waste, on every hand. In every street-car and on every
ferry-boat the floors and seats were littered with newspapers that had
been read and thrown away or left behind. If I went to a grocery store
to buy a peck of potatoes, and a potato rolled off the heaping measure,
the groceryman, instead of picking it up, kicked it into the gutter for
the wheels of his wagon to run over. The butcher's waste filled my
mother's soul with dismay. If I bought a scuttle of coal at the corner
grocery, the coal that missed the scuttle, instead of being shovelled up
and put back into the bin, was swept into the street. My young eyes
quickly saw this; in the even