man can make a fool of himself, and the college yell at
the end of them is just a frill that doesn't change essentials. The boy
who does anything just because the other fellows do it is apt to scratch
a poor man's back all his life. He's the chap that's buying wheat at
ninety-seven cents the day before the market breaks. They call him "the
country" in the market reports, but the city's full of him. It's the
fellow who has the spunk to think and act for himself, and sells short
when prices hit the high C and the house is standing on its hind legs
yelling for more, that sits in the directors' meetings when he gets on
toward forty.

We've got an old steer out at the packing-house that stands around at
the foot of the runway leading up to the killing pens, looking for all
the world like one of the village fathers sitting on the cracker box
before the grocery--sort of sad-eyed, dreamy old cuss--always has two or
three straws from his cud sticking out of the corner of his mouth. You
never saw a steer that looked as if he took less interest in things. But
by and by the boys drive a bunch of steers toward him, or cows maybe, if
we're canning, and then you'll see Old Abe move off up that runway, sort
of beckoning the bunch after him with that wicked old stump of a tail of
his, as if there was something mighty interesting to steers at the top,
and something that every Texan and Colorado, raw from the prairies,
ought to have a look at to put a metropolitan finish on him. Those
steers just naturally follow along on up that runway and into the
killing pens. But just as they get to the top, Old Abe, someways, gets
lost in the crowd, and he isn't among those present when the gates are
closed and the real trouble begins for his new friends.

I never saw a dozen boys together that there wasn't an Old Abe among
them. If you find your crowd following him, keep away from it. There
are times when it's safest to be lonesome. Use a little common-sense,
caution and conscience. You can stock a store with those three
commodities, when you get enough of them. But you've got to begin
getting them young. They ain't catching after you toughen up a bit.

You needn't write me if you feel yourself getting them. The symptoms
will show in your expense account. Good-by; life's too short to write
letters and New York's calling me on the wire.

Your affectionate father,