g under the sting of the lash of necessity. Life seems one
futureless round of drudgery. We wonder why. We often look across the
street and see somebody who lives a happier life. That one is chained
to no oar. See what a fine time they all have. Why must we pull on the
oar?

How blind we are! We can only see our own oar. We cannot see that they,
too, pull on the oar and feel the lash. Most likely they are looking
back at us and envying us. For while we envy others, others are envying
us.

But look at the chariot race in Antioch. See the thousands in the
circus. See Messala, the haughty Roman, and see! Ben Hur from the
galleys in the other chariot pitted against him. Down the course dash
these twin thunderbolts. The thousands hold their breath. "Who will
win?" "The man with the stronger forearms," they whisper.

There comes the crucial moment in the race. See the man with the
stronger forearms. They are bands of steel that swell in the forearms
of Ben Hur. They swing those flying Arabians into the inner ring. Ben
Hur wins the race! Where got the Jew those huge forearms? From the
galleys!

Had Ben Hur never pulled on the oar, he never could have won the
chariot race.

Sooner or later you and I are to learn that Providence makes no
mistakes in the bookkeeping. As we pull on the oar, so often lashed by
grim necessity, every honest effort is laid up at compound interest in
the bank account of strength. Sooner or later the time comes when we
need every ounce. Sooner or later our chariot race is on--when we win
the victory, strike the deciding blow, stand while those around us
fall--and it is won with the forearms earned in the galleys of life by
pulling on the oar.

That is why I thanked God as I stood at the grave of my classmate. I
thanked God for parents who believed in the gospel of struggle, and for
the circumstances that compelled it.

I am not an example of success.

But I am a very grateful pupil in the first reader class of The
University of Hard Knocks.

Chapter IX

Go On South!

The Book in the Running Brook

THERE is a little silvery sheet of water in Minnesota called Lake
Itasca. There is a place where a little stream leaps out from the lake.

"Ole!" you will exclaim, "the lake is leaking. What is the name of this
little creek?"

"Creek! It bane no creek. It bane Mississippi river."

So even the Father of Waters has to begin as a creek. We are at the
cradle where the baby river leaps f