It was his remark that he retired because he wanted “to play” that Edward Bok’s friends most completely misunderstood.  “Play” in their minds meant tennis, golf, horseback, polo, travel, etc.—­(curious that scarcely one mentioned reading!).  It so happens that no one enjoys some of these play-forms more than Bok; but “God forbid,” he said, “that I should spend the rest of my days in a bunker or in the saddle.  In moderation,” he added, “yes; most decidedly.”  But the phrase of “play” meant more to him than all this.  Play is diversion:  exertion of the mind as well as of the body.  There is such a thing as mental play as well as physical play.  We ask of play that it shall rest, refresh, exhilarate.  Is there any form of mental activity that secures all these ends so thoroughly and so directly as doing something that a man really likes to do, doing it with all his heart, all the time conscious that he is helping to make the world better for some one else?

A man’s “play” can take many forms.  If his life has been barren of books or travel, let him read or see the world.  But he reaches his high estate by either of these roads only when he reads or travels to enrich himself in order to give out what he gets to enrich the lives of others.  He owes it to himself to get his own refreshment, his own pleasure, but he need not make that pure self-indulgence.

Other men, more active in body and mind, feel drawn to the modern arena of the great questions that puzzle.  It matters not in which direction a man goes in these matters any more than the length of a step matters so much as does the direction in which the step is taken.  He should seek those questions which engross his deepest interest, whether literary, musical, artistic, civic, economic, or what not.

Our cities, towns, communities of all sizes and kinds, urban and rural, cry out for men to solve their problems.  There is room and to spare for the man of any bent.  The old Romans looked forward, on coming to the age of retirement, which was definitely fixed by rule, to a rural life, when they hied themselves to a little home in the country, had open house for their friends, and “kept bees.”  While bee-keeping is unquestionably interesting, there are today other and more vital occupations awaiting the retired American.

The main thing is to secure that freedom of movement that lets a man go where he will and do what he thinks he can do best, and prove to himself and to others that the acquirement of the dollar is not all there is to life.  No man can realize, until on awakening some morning he feels the exhilaration, the sense of freedom that comes from knowing he can choose his own doings and control his own goings.  Time is of more value than money, and it is that which the man who retires feels that he possesses.  Hamilton Mabie once said, after his retirement from an active editorial position:  “I am so happy that the time has come when I elect what I shall do,” which is true; but then he added:  “I have rubbed out the word ‘must’ from my vocabulary,” which was not true.  No man ever reaches that point.  Duty of some sort confronts a man in business or out of business, and duty spells “must.”  But there is less “must” in the vocabulary of the retired man; and it is this lessened quantity that gives the tang of joy to the new day.