We are a young nation and a great nation.  Judging from the promise of the morning, there is nothing that may not be asked of America’s noon.  A land of abundance, with not an evil that may not be banished, and yet there is more whining in it than in any other country on the face of the globe.  If we are to die, “Nibbled to Death by Ducks” may well be put on the tombstone.  Little things are permitted to bring about paroxysms of peevishness.  Even our pleasures have come to be taken sadly.  We are irritable at picnics, snarly at clambakes, and bored to death at dinners.

The Government ought to hire Douglas Fairbanks, and send him over the country as an agent of the Bureau of Grins.  Have him start work in Boston, and then rush him by special train to Philadelphia.  If the wealth of the United States increased $41,000,000,000 during the last three peevish, whining years, think what would happen if we learned the art of joyousness and gained the strength that comes from good humor and optimism!

“Doug” Fairbanks—­now that he is in the “movies” we don’t have to be formal—­is the living, breathing proof of the value of a grin.  His rise from obscurity to fame, from poverty to wealth, has no larger foundation than his ever-ready willingness to let the whole world see every tooth in his head.

Good looks?  Artistry?  Bosh!  The Fairbanks features were evidently picked out by a utilitarian mother who preferred use to ornament; and as for his acting, critics of the drama, imbued with the traditions of Booth and Barrett, have been known to sob like children after witnessing a Fairbanks performance.

It is the joyousness of the man that gets him over.  It’s the 100 per cent interest that he takes in everything he goes at that lies at the back of his success.  He does nothing by halves, is never indifferent, never lackadaisical.

At various stages in his brief career he has been a Shakespearean actor, Wall Street clerk, hay steward on a cattle-boat, vagabond, and business man, knowing poverty, hunger, and discomfort at times, but never, never losing the grin.  Things began to move for him when he left a Denver high school back in 1900 for the purpose of entering college.  As he says, “A man can’t be too careful about college.”

He started for Princeton, but met a youth on the train who was going to Harvard.  He took a special course at Cambridge—­just what it was he can’t remember—­but at the end of the year it was hinted to him that circus life was more suited to his talents, particularly one with three rings.

A friend, however, suggested the theatre, and gave him a card to Frederick Warde, the tragedian.  Mr. Warde fell for the Fairbanks grin, and as a first part assigned him the role of Francois, the lackey, in “Richelieu.”  What he lacked in experience he made up for in activity and unflagging merriment.  It got to be so that Warde was almost afraid to touch the bell, for he never knew whether the amazing Francois would enter through the door or come down from the ceiling.