Save up your pennies, measure everything by the dollar standard, think dollars, dream dollars, work, slave, push for the dollars and you will build a fortune. You will never have peace or recreation, or joy; you will live only in hope of a some day when you will retire. That's the way the millionaires travel life's highway. Some day the paper will announce the death of those millionaires and then the dollars will be blown in by reckless heirs, and so the grinding wheels roll on. Surely there are many ways of looking at things. Surely there is much of interest in the crowd. Surely there is an unending fund from which to speculate, in that crowd way down on the street below my window. What passions, what hopes, what joys, what sorrows, are in the hearts of that hurrying, worrying crowd. What noise this din of traffic makes, what activity man has stirred up. A picture, a drama, a tragedy, a comedy, all these I see in the human ants that run along below the hive where I sit and write these lines. The phone rings and my little Nancy Lou's voice says, "Daddy, will you please bring me a pencil and a tablet with lines on it." So I must needs stop this, whatever you may call it, and push through the crowd to get that tablet with "lines on it" for my Nancy Lou; and there is some feeling of happiness and content and peace in Daddy's heart as he lays down his pen, for Daddy is going Home, and that word means a lot in his little family, where they all say "Daddy" instead of Papa or Father. DOING THINGS TWICE A Common Habit That Saps Nerve Power It is hard enough to do duty once, but doubly hard when you anticipate mentally everything you have to do tomorrow. This doing things twice is a habit easily acquired if you don't watch out, and it means wasted energy. I have just read the experience of a housewife who was resting on a couch reading; her eye caught sight of a book lying on the floor across the room. Instantly her mindometer, if I may coin a word, registered, "when you get up, pick up that book." She went on reading, but her mind was not on the magazine she held, but on that book on the floor. So obsessed did she become that she was miserable until she got up and picked up the book. I was talking with a woman who was resting on her porch; her day's work was over. She was dressed for the afternoon. Everything in the home was neat, sweet, clean and tidy. All serene but her face, and that was the window through which I saw worry working overtime. By strategy I learned the trouble, and here is her story: "Tomorrow a lot of fruit will be ready to preserve. I am worrying where I shall put it. My fruit closet is full." The woman had every reason to say to herself "sufficient unto the day," yet she was doing the preserving mentally today and tomorrow she would do the work physically. A tired mind is harder to rest than a tired body, so we must nip this advance mental work in the bud.