Isn’t that rewarding? _Just David_ will be out in a few days now.... The author of _Just David_--and _The Road to Understanding_ and _Oh, Money! Money!_ and, why _of course_ of _Pollyanna_!--is not thinking of the royalties that will be hers on 100,000 copies of her novel. No. Eleanor H. Porter makes a moderate fortune with each of her books. But what rewards her for the task of writing them--did you ever sit down and write, just _write_, 80,000 words, let alone telling a story?--what gives her the satisfaction that’s of the heart is the invincible proof that a hundred thousand are buying her book on faith. They believe in _her_, in her work; she has pleased them, made them happier or better somehow, somewhere, somewhen; they look to her for help, for cheer, for entertainment, for a kind of enlightenment that they haven’t found elsewhere and that will be supremely worth their while. Stand aside, you who are sophisticated, cynical, world worn and merely flippant! If you could see assembled before you in one vast throng this hundred thousand and tens of thousands more, if you could see them gathered about you with upturned interested, expectant and eager faces, what would you say? What _could_ you say? Do you think your sophistication would be proof against the expression on these faces? Do you think that _you_ could give them what they need? Would your subtleties help them? Would they listen to you and go away a little braver, a little more comforted, a little readier to face life? Up in the White Mountains there’s a cabin called after the girl Pollyanna. Out in Colorado there’s a Pollyanna teahouse. A little maid in Texas bears the name. The builder of an apartment house in an Indiana city has his fancy struck. There’s a Pollyanna brand of milk, and Pollyanna clubs are formed whose members sport an enameled button showing a young girl’s sweet face. Surely the woman who can so touch the hearts, the imagination, or even merely the fancy of men and women and children everywhere--surely she and her work call for respectful consideration. There must be something here, something admirable, if we can only put our fingers on it! There is.