I do not believe that the principles of life have changed in forty years.  I do not believe that an intelligent, able-bodied man need be a servant all his life, or that industry and economy miss their rewards, or that there is any truth in the theory that men cannot rise out of the rut in which they happen to find themselves.  The trouble is with the man, not with the rut.  He spends his time in wallowing rather than in diligently searching for an outlet or in honestly working his way up to it.  Heredity and environment are heavy weights, but industry and sobriety can carry off heavier ones.  I have sympathy for weakness of body or mind, and patience for those over whom inheritance has cast a baleful spell; but I have neither patience nor sympathy for a strong man who rails at his condition and makes no determined effort to better it.

The time and money wasted in strikes, agitations, and arbitrations, if put to practical use, would better the working-man enough faster than these futile efforts do.  I have no quarrel with unions or combinations of labor, so far as they have the true interests of labor for an object; but I do quarrel with the spirit of mob rule and the evidences of conspicuous waste, which have grown so rampant as to overshadow the helpful hand and to threaten, not the stability of society—­for in the background I see six million conservative sons of the soil who will look to the stability of things when the time comes—­but the unions themselves.

I remember my first summer on a farm.  It lasted from the first day of April to the thirty-first day of October, and on the evening of that day I carried to my father $28, the full wage for seven months.  I could not have spent one cent during that time, for I carried the whole sum home; but I do not remember that I was conscious of any want.  The hours on the farm were not short; an eight-hour day would have been considered but a half-day.  We worked from sun to sun, and I grew and knew no sorrow or oppression.  The next year I received the munificent wage of $6 a month, and the following year, $8.

In after years, in brick-yards, sawmills, lumber woods, or harvest fields, there was no arbitrary limit put upon the amount of work to be done.  If I chose to do the work of a man and a half, I got $1.50 for doing it, and it would have been a bold and sturdy delegate who tried to hold me from it.  I felt no need of help from outside.  I was fit to care for myself, and I minded not the long hours, the hard work, or the hard bed.  This life was preliminary to a fuller one, and it served its use.  I know what tired legs and back mean, and I know that one need not have them always if he will use the ordinary sense which God gives.  Genius, or special cleverness, is not necessary to get a man out of the rut of hard manual labor.  Just plain, everyday sense will do.  But before I had secured the three men for whom I was in search, I began to feel that this common sense of which we speak so glibly is a rare commodity under the working-man’s hat.  I advertised, sent to agencies and intelligence offices, interviewed and inspected, consulted friends and enemies, and so generally harrowed my life that I was fit to give up the whole business and retire into a cave.