something more reliable than that. So I got a job working for a railway-station agent and
learned telegraphy in my spare time. Later, I got a job working as relief operator for the
Frisco Railway. I was sent here, there, and yonder to relieve other station agents who
were ill or on vacation or had more work than they could do. That job paid $150 per
month. Later, when I started out to better myself, I always figured that that railroad
job meant economic safety. So I always kept the road open back to that job. It was my
line of supplies, and I never cut myself off from it until I was firmly established in a new
and better position.
For example, back in 1928, when I was working as a relief operator for the Frisco
Railway in Chelsea, .Oklahoma, a stranger drifted in one evening to send a telegram. He
heard me playing the guitar and singing cowboy songs and told me I was good-told me
that I ought to go to New York and get a job on the stage or radio. Naturally, I was
flattered; and when I saw the name he signed to his telegram, I was almost breathless:
Instead of rushing off to New York at once, I thought the matter over carefully for nine
months. I finally came to the conclusion that I had nothing to lose and everything to
gain by going to New York and giving the old town a whirl. I had a railroad pass: I could
travel free. I could sleep sitting up in my seat, and I could carry some sandwiches and
fruit for my meals.
So I went. When I reached New York, I slept in a furnished room for five dollars a week,
ate at the Automat, and tramped the streets for ten weeks-and got nowhere. I would
have been worried sick if I hadn't had a job to go back to. I had already worked for the
railway five years. That meant I had seniority rights; but in order to protect those
rights, I couldn't lay off longer than ninety days. By this time, I had already been in New
York seventy days, so I rushed back to Oklahoma on my pass and began working again to
protect my line of supply. I worked for a few months, saved money, and returned to
New York for another try. This time I got a break. One day, while waiting for an
interview in a recording-studio office, I played my guitar and sang a song to the girl
receptionist: "Jeannine, I Dream of Lilac Time". While I was singing that song, the man
who wrote it-Nat Schildkraut-drifted into the office. Naturally, he was pleased to hear
anyone singing his song. So he gave me a note of introduction and sent me down to the
Victor Recording Company. I made a record. I was no good-too stiff and self-conscious.
So I took the advice of the Victor Recording man: I went back to Tulsa, worked for the
railway by day, and at night I sang cowboy songs on a sustaining radio programme. I
liked that arrangement. It meant that I was keeping my line of supplies open-so I had
no worries.
I sang for nine months on radio station KVOO in Tulsa. During that time, Jimmy Long and
I wrote a song entitled "That Silver-Haired Daddy of Mine". It caught on. Arthur
Sattherly, head of the American Recording Company, asked me to make a recording. It
clicked. I made a number of other recordings for fifty dollars each, and finally got a job
singing cowboy songs over radio station WLS in Chicago. Salary: forty dollars a week.
After singing there four years, my salary was raised to ninety dollars a week, and I
picked up another three hundred dollars doing personal appearances every night in
theatres.
Then in 1934, I got a break that opened up enormous possibilities. The League of
Decency was formed to clean up the movies. So Hollywood producers decided to put on
cowboy pictures; but they wanted a new kind of cowboy-one who could sing. The man
who owned the American Recording Company was also part owner of Republic Pictures.
"If you want a singing cowboy," he said to his associates, "I have got one making records
for us." That is how I broke into the movies. I started making singing-cowboy pictures for
one hundred dollars a week. I had serious doubts about whether I would succeed in
pictures, but I didn't worry. I knew I could always go back to my old job.
My success in pictures exceeded my wildest expectations. I now get a salary of one
hundred thousand a year plus one half of all the profits on my pictures. However, I
realise that this arrangement won't go on for ever. But I am not worried. I know that no
matter what happens-even if I lose every dollar I have-I can always go back to Oklahoma
and get a job working for the Frisco Railway. I have protected my line of supplies.
~~~~
I Heard A Voice In India
By
E. Stanley Jones
One of America's most dynamic speakers and the most famous missionary of his
generation
I have devoted forty years of my life to missionary work in India. At first, I found it
difficult to endure the terrible heat plus the nervous strain of the great task that
stretched before me. At the end of eight years, I was suffering so severely from brain
fatigue and nervous exhaustion that I collapsed, not once but several times. I was
ordered to take a year's furlough in America. On the boat returning to America, I
collapsed again while speaking at a Sunday-morning service on the ship, and the ship's
doctor put me to bed for the remainder of the trip.
After a year's rest in America, I started back to India, but stopped on the way to hold
evangelistic meetings among the university students in Manila. In the midst of the strain
of these meetings, I collapsed several times. Physicians warned me that if I returned to
India, I would die. In spite of their warnings, I continued on to India, but I went with a
deepening cloud upon me. When I arrived in Bombay, I was so broken that I went
straight to the hills and rested for several months. Then I returned to the plains to
continue my work. It was no use. I collapsed and was forced to return to the hills for
another long rest. Again I descended to the plains, and again I was shocked and crushed
to discover that I couldn't take it. I was exhausted mentally, nervously, and physically. I
was completely at the end of my resources. I feared that I would be a physical wreck for
the balance of my life.
If I didn't get help from somewhere, I realised that I would have to give up my
missionary career, go back to America, and work on a farm to try to regain my health. It
was one of my darkest hours. At that time I was holding a series of meetings in
Lucknow. While praying one night, an event happened that completely transformed my
life. While in prayer-and I was not particularly thinking about myself at the time-a voice
seemed to say: "Are you yourself ready for this work to which I have called you?"
I replied: "No, Lord, I am done for. I have reached the end of my resources."
The Voice replied "If you will turn that over to Me and not worry about it, I will take
care of it."
I quickly answered: "Lord, I close the bargain right here."
A great peace settled into my heart and pervaded my whole being. I knew it was done!
Life-abundant life-had taken possession of me. I was so lifted up that I scarcely touched
the road as I quietly walked home that night. Every inch was holy ground. For days after
that I hardly knew I had a body. I went through the days, working all day and far into
the night, and came down to bedtime wondering why in the world I should ever go to
bed at all, for there was not the slightest trace of tiredness of any kind. I seemed
possessed by life and peace and rest-by Christ Himself.
The question came as to whether I should tell this. I shrank from it, but I felt I shouldand
did. After that it was sink or swim before everybody. More than a score of the most
strenuous years of my life have gone by since then, but the old trouble has never
returned. I have never had such health. But it was more than a physical touch. I seemed
to have tapped new life for body, mind, and spirit. After that experience, life for me
functioned on a permanently higher level. And I had done nothing but take it!
During the many years that have gone by since then, I have travelled all over the world,
frequently lecturing three times a day, and have found time and strength to write The
Christ of the Indian Road and eleven other books. Yet in the midst of all this, I have
never missed, or even been late to, an appointment. The worries that once beset me
have long since vanished, and now, in my sixty-third year, I am overflowing with
abounding vitality and the joy of serving and living for others.
I suppose that the physical and mental transformation that I have experienced could be
picked to pieces psychologically and explained. It does not matter. Life is bigger than
processes and overflows and dwarfs them.
This one thing I know: my life was completely transformed and uplifted that night in
Lucknow, thirty-one years ago, when at the depth of my weakness and depression, a
voice said to me: "If you will turn that over to Me and not worry about it, I will take care
of it," and I replied: "Lord, I close the bargain right here."
~~~~
When The Sheriff Came In My Front Door
By
Homer Croy
Novelist, 150 Pinehurst Avenue, New York, New York
The bitterest moment of my life occurred one day in 1933 when the sheriff came in the
front door and I went out the back. I had lost my home at 10 Standish Road, Forest Hills,
Long Island, where my children were born and where I and my family had lived for
eighteen years. I had never dreamed that this could happen to me. Twelve years before,
I thought I was sitting on top of the world. I had sold the motion-picture rights to my
novel West of the Water Tower for a top Hollywood price. I lived abroad with my family
for two years. We summered in Switzerland and wintered on the French Riviera-just
like the idle rich.
I spent six months in Paris and wrote a novel entitled They Had to See Paris. Will Rogers
appeared in the screen version. It was his first talking picture. I had tempting offers to
remain in Hollywood and write several of Will Rogers' pictures. But I didn't. I returned to
New York. And my troubles began!
It slowly dawned on me that I had great dormant abilities that I had never developed. I
began to fancy myself a shrewd business man. Somebody told me that John Jacob Astor
had made millions investing in vacant land in New York. Who was Astor? Just an
immigrant peddler with an accent. If he could do it, why couldn't I? ... I was going to be
rich! I began to read the yachting magazines.
I had the courage of ignorance. I didn't know any more about buying and selling real
estate than an Eskimo knows about oil furnaces. How was I to get the money to launch
myself on my spectacular financial career? That was simple. I mortgaged my home, and
bought some of the finest building lots in Forest Hills. I was going to hold this land until
it reached a fabulous price, then sell it and live in luxury-I who had never sold a piece
of real estate as big as a doll's handkerchief. I pitied the plodders who slaved in offices
for a mere salary. I told myself that God had not seen fit to touch every man with the
divine fire of financial genius.
Suddenly, the great depression swept down upon me like a Kansas cyclone and shook me
as a tornado would shake a hen coop.
I had to pour $220 a month into that monster-mouthed piece of Good Earth. Oh, how
fast those months came! In addition, I had to keep up the payments on our nowmortgaged
house and find enough food. I was worried. I tried to write humour for the
magazines. My attempts at humour sounded like the lamentations of Jeremiah! I was
unable to sell anything. The novel I wrote failed. I ran out of money. I had nothing on
which I could borrow money except my typewriter and the gold fillings in my teeth. The
milk company stopped delivering milk. The gas company turned off the gas. We had to
buy one of those little outdoor camp stoves you see advertised; it had a cylinder of
gasoline; you pump it up by hand and it shoots out a flame with a hissing like an angry
goose.
We ran out of coal; the company sued us. Our only heat was the fireplace. I would go
out at night and pick up boards and left-overs from the new homes that the rich people
were building ... I who had started out to be one of these rich people.
I was so worried I couldn't sleep. I often got up in the middle of the night and walked for
hours to exhaust myself so I could fall asleep.
I lost not only the vacant land I had bought, but all my heart's blood that I had poured
into it.
The bank closed the mortgage on my home and put me and my family out on the street.
In some way, we managed to get hold of a few dollars and rent a small apartment. We
moved in the last day of 1933. I sat down on a packing case and looked around. An old
saying of my mother's came back: "Don't cry over spilt milk."
But this wasn't milk. This was my heart's blood!
After I had sat there a while I said to myself: "Well, I've hit bottom and I've stood it.
There's no place to go now but up."
I began to think of the fine things that the mortgage had not taken from me. I still had
my health and my friends. I would start again. I would not grieve about the past. I would
repeat to myself every day the words I had often heard my mother say about spilt milk.
I put into my work the energy that I had been putting into worrying. Little by little, my
situation began to improve. I am almost thankful now that I had to go through all that
misery; it gave me strength, fortitude, and confidence. I know now what it means to hit
bottom. I know it doesn't kill you. I know we can stand more than we think we can.
When little worries and anxieties and uncertainties try to disturb me now, I banish them
by reminding myself of the time I sat on the packing case and said: "I've hit bottom and
I've stood it. There is no place to go now but up."
What's the principle here? Don't try to saw sawdust. Accept the inevitable! If you can't
go lower, yon can try going up.
~~~~
The Toughest Opponent I Ever Fought Was Worry
By
Jack Dempsey
During my career in the ring, I found that Old Man Worry was an almost tougher
opponent than the heavyweight boxers I fought. I realised that I had to learn to stop
worrying, or worry would sap my vitality and undermine my success. So, little by little, I
worked out a system for myself. Here are some of the things I did:
1. To keep up my courage in the ring, I would give myself a pep talk during the fight.
For example, while I was fighting Firpo, I kept saying over and over: "Nothing is going to
stop me. He is not going to hurt me. I won't feel his blows. I can't get hurt. I am going to
keep going, no matter what happens." Making positive statements like that to myself,
and thinking positive thoughts, helped me a lot. It even kept my mind so occupied that I
didn't feel the blows. During my career, I have had my lips smashed, my eyes cut, my
ribs cracked-and Firpo knocked me clear through the ropes, and I landed on a reporter's
typewriter and wrecked it. But I never felt even one of Firpo's blows. There was only
one blow that I ever really felt. That was the night Lester Johnson broke three of my
ribs. The punch never hurt me; but it affected my breathing. I can honestly say I never
felt any other blow I ever got in the ring.
2. Another thing I did was to keep reminding myself of the futility of worry. Most of my
worrying was done before the big bouts, while I was going through training. I would
often lie awake at nights for hours, tossing and worrying, unable to sleep. I would worry
for fear I might break my hand or sprain my ankle or get my eye cut badly in the first
round so I couldn't co-ordinate my punches. When I got myself into this state of nerves, I
used to get out of bed, look into the mirror, and give myself a good talking to. I would
say: "What a fool you are to be worrying about something than hasn't happened and may
never happen. Life is short. I have only a few years to live, so I must enjoy life." I kept
saying to myself: "Nothing is important but my health. Nothing is important but my
health." I kept reminding myself that losing sleep and worrying would destroy my
health. I found that by saying these things to myself over and over, night after night,
year after year, they finally got under my skin, and I could brush off my worries like so
much water.
3. The third-and best-thing I did was pray! While I was training for a bout, I always
prayed several times a day. When I was in the ring, I always prayed just before the bell
sounded for each round. That helped me fight with courage and confidence. I have
never gone to bed in my life without saying a prayer; and I have never eaten a meal in
my life without first thanking God for it ... Have my prayers been answered? Thousands
of times!
~~~~
I Prayed To God To Keep Me Out Of An Orphan's Home
By
Kathleen Halter
Housewife, 1074 Roth, University City 14, Missouri
As a little child, my life was filled with horror. My mother had heart trouble. Day after
day, I saw her faint and fall to the floor. We all feared she was going to die, and I
believed that all little girls whose mothers died were sent to the Central Wesleyan
Orphans' Home, located in the little town of Warrenton, Missouri, where we lived. I
dreaded the thought of going there, and when I was six years old I prayed constantly:
"Dear God, please let my mummy live until I am old enough not to go to the orphans'
home."
Twenty years later, my brother, Meiner, had a terrible injury and suffered intense pain
until he died two years later. He couldn't feed himself or turn over in bed. To deaden
his pain, I had to give him morphine hypodermics every three hours, day and night. I did
this for two years. I was teaching music at the time at the Central Wesleyan College in
Warrenton, Missouri. When the neighbours heard my brother screaming with pain, they
would telephone me at college and I would leave my music class and rush home to give
my brother another injection of morphine. Every night when I went to bed, I would set
the alarm clock to go off three hours later so I would be sure to get up to attend to my
brother. I remember that on winter nights I would keep a bottle of milk outside the
window, where it would freeze and turn into a kind of ice-cream that I loved to eat.
When the alarm went off, this ice cream outside the window gave me an additional
incentive to get up.
In the midst of all these troubles, I did two things that kept me from indulging in selfpity
and worrying and embittering my life with resentment. First, I kept myself busy
teaching music from twelve to fourteen hours a day, so I had little time to think of my
troubles; and when I was tempted to feel sorry for myself, I kept saying to myself over
and over: "Now, listen, as long as you can walk and feed yourself and are free from
intense pain, you ought to be the happiest person in the world. No matter what
happens, never forget that as long as you live! Never! Never!"
I was determined to do everything in my power to cultivate an unconscious and
continuous attitude of gratefulness for my many blessings. Every morning when I awoke,
I would thank God that conditions were no worse than they were; and I resolved that in
spite of my troubles I would be the happiest person in Warrenton, Missouri. Maybe I
didn't succeed in achieving that goal, but I did succeed in making myself the most
grateful young woman in my town-and probably few of my associates worried less than I
did.
This Missouri music teacher applied two principles described in this book: she kept too
busy to worry, and she counted her blessings. The same technique may be helpful to
you.
~~~~
I Was Acting Like An Hysterical Woman
By
Cameron Shipp
Magazine Writer
I had been working very happily in the publicity department of the Warner Brothers
studio in California for several years. I was a unit man and feature writer. I wrote
stories for newspapers and magazines about Warner Brother stars.
Suddenly, I was promoted. I was made the assistant publicity director. As a matter of
fact, there was a change of administrative policy, and I was given an impressive title:
Administrative Assistant.
This gave me an enormous office with a private refrigerator, two secretaries, and
complete charge of a staff of seventy-five writers, exploiters, and radio men. I was
enormously impressed. I went straight out and bought a new suit. I tried to speak with
dignity. I set up filing systems, made decisions with authority, and ate quick lunches.
I was convinced that the whole public-relations policy of Warner Brothers had
descended upon my shoulders. I perceived that the lives, both private and public, of
such renowned persons as Bette Davis, Olivia De Havilland, James Cagney, Edward G.
Robinson, Errol Flynn, Humphrey Bogart, Ann Sheridan, Alexis Smith, and Alan Hale
were entirely in my hands.
In less than a month I became aware that I had stomach ulcers. Probably cancer.
My chief war activity at that time was chairman of the War Activities Committee of the
Screen Publicists Guild. I liked to do this work, liked to meet my friends at guild
meetings. But these gatherings became matters of dread. After every meeting, I was
violently ill. Often I had to stop my car on the way home, pulling myself together before
I could drive on. There seemed to be so much to do, so little time in which to do it. It
was all vital. And I was woefully inadequate.
I am being perfectly truthful-this was the most painful illness of my entire life. There
was always a tight fist in my vitals. I lost weight. I could not sleep. The pain was
constant.
So I went to see a renowned expert in internal medicine. An advertising man
recommended him. He said this physician had many clients who were advertising men.
This physician spoke only briefly, just enough for me to tell him where I hurt and what I
did for a living. He seemed more interested in my job than in my ailments, but I was
soon reassured: for two weeks, daily, he gave me every known test. I was probed,
explored, X-rayed, and fluoroscoped. Finally, I was instructed to call on him and hear
the verdict.
"Mr. Shipp," he said, leaning back and offering me a cigarette, "we have been through
these exhaustive tests. They were absolutely necessary, although I knew of course after
my first quick examination that you did not have stomach ulcers.
"But I knew, because you are the kind of man you are and because you do the kind of
work you do, that you would not believe me unless I showed you. Let me show you."
So he showed me the charts and the X-rays and explained them. He showed me I had no
ulcers.
"Now," said the doctor, "this costs you a good deal of money, but it is worth it to you.
Here is the prescription: don't worry.
"Now"-he stopped me as I started to expostulate-;"now, I realise that you can't follow
the prescription immediately, so I'll give you a crutch. Here are some pills. They contain
belladonna. Take as many as you like. When you use these up, come back and I'll give
you more. They won't hurt you. But they will always relax you.
