ld
employers, and distributed liberal sums of money among his poor
relations. So far from being ashamed of his business, he caused to be
engraved on all his carriage doors the motto which he considered the
secret of his success:--

SMALL PROFITS DO GREAT THINGS.

In his old age he rejoined his old friends the Methodists, and he
declares in his last edition that, if he had never heard the Methodists
preach, in all probability he should have remained through life "a poor,
ragged, dirty cobbler."

HORACE GREELEY'S START.

I have seldom been more interested than in hearing Horace Greeley tell
the story of his coming to New York in 1831, and gradually working his
way into business there.

He was living at the age of twenty years with his parents in a small
log-cabin in a new clearing of Western Pennsylvania, about twenty miles
from Erie. His father, a Yankee by birth, had recently moved to that
region and was trying to raise sheep there, as he had been accustomed to
do in Vermont. The wolves were too numerous there.

It was part of the business of Horace and his brother to watch the flock
of sheep, and sometimes they camped out all night, sleeping with their
feet to the fire, Indian fashion. He told me that occasionally a pack of
wolves would come so near that he could see their eyeballs glare in the
darkness and hear them pant. Even as he lay in the loft of his father's
cabin he could hear them howling in the fields. In spite of all their
care, the wolves killed in one season a hundred of his father's sheep,
and then he gave up the attempt.

The family were so poor that it was a matter of doubt sometimes whether
they could get food enough to live through the long winter; and so
Horace, who had learned the printer's trade in Vermont, started out on
foot in search of work in a village printing-office. He walked from
village to village, and from town to town, until at last he went to
Erie, the largest place in the vicinity.

There he was taken for a runaway apprentice, and certainly his
appearance justified suspicion. Tall and gawky as he was in person, with
tow-colored hair, and a scanty suit of shabbiest homespun, his
appearance excited astonishment or ridicule wherever he went. He had
never worn a good suit of clothes in his life. He had a singularly fair,
white complexion, a piping, whining voice, and these peculiarities gave
the effect of his being wanting in intellect. It was not until people
conversed