V
I had been at my new job two weeks. We had issued two editions of the weekly paper. I had done the work of editor, reporter, compositor, proof-reader, pressman, and mailing clerk. Every day I was growing more and more in love with my job. I whistled again like a boy, at my work-this, in spite of the fact that I was taking that long trip each night and morning to and from New York. It is not work-the kind that is made creative-but stagnation, which wearies.
New demands were stirring every part of my being into new activities. My faculties were all alert. So were my emotions, my imaginations,and my sense of humor. Values were being aroused in me that, for lack of something to call them into use, had all my life been lying dormant. I had never known that I could do some of the things which I now did. I had begun to take an interest innational and world affairs, about which I had to furnish copy. I also had begun to take more interest in people.
For years, when making my daily trips on the Elevated, I had most of the time kept my eyes glued to the latest criminal sensation in the newspapers. When I was not reading a newspaper, my thoughts were occupied with my own small interests.
The thing always of big importance was that I should beat someone else to a seat in the car. But now I began to watch and study that mass of humanity packed into the car with me. The mass resolved itself into individual beings. I picked out those having the old-age spirit from the ones who had the spirit of youth. By far the larger number-regardless of the years they had lived-were caught in the grip of the old-age fear, and were traveling in the old-age ruts. A good many, like little Miss Marsh, were trying to camouflage their old age by artificial means.
A new sympathy began to warm inmy heart for mankind-so pitiably ignorant of Life and of the ways to gain itsrealjoys. My New Yorker’s reserve began to relax, and I let myself do little helpful things for my fellow travelers. One night I helped an old East-Side Jew struggling under a load of second-hand clothing. The poor old chap’s surprised smile of appreciation brought a quick lump into my throat; and a kindlier feeling for the whole Jewish race warmed in my heart. I was growing tensely interested, too, in all the doings of our little New Jersey town. Each day I was making new friends. All of which meant a vitalizing of my heart’s stagnation.
My son George was well again, and had gone back to his work. Mattie-my wife-had come home. I had rented a small house not far from the printing-office, and we were getting ready to move to New Jersey.
Then, after I had been working for him two weeks, Ben Hutchins was seized with a bad attack of lumbago, and was laid up at home for a month. At the endof that time his daughter had persuaded him to go to California and spend the rest of the winter.
When he reached a final decision relative to this California trip, he sent for me to come and see him. I had been several times, during his sickness, to the big, old-fashioned house, where he lived with his widowed daughter. His wife was dead. When I went now we had another of our brief talks. He was going to leave the printing-plant entirely up to me.
“Run it as well as you can, and keep me posted how you’re coming on.”
He gave no further instructions. But by this time I had learned that he liked to be met in his own brief way of doing business-never wanted any fuss of words; when he felt justified in trusting a man, he trusted him absolutely. And I knew now that he felt this trust in me. When, on leaving, I shook hands with him, I gave him a tight grip of appreciation, and we exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
I had already hired another printer. And Mattie, now that we had moved over to our new home, came every day to the office and helped. I made a number of changes in the old plant. I even put into operation some of the modern efficiency methods which I had scorned in the New York plant. Our job printing was growing; and we were getting new subscribers and more advertising for the newspaper.
One day a peculiar thing happened. I had run over to New York, to get some new parts for our old press. This errand took me down town, in the neighborhood of the Sixth Avenue Elevated station, which had been a part of my daily rut for so many years. The sight of it now took me back to the day when I got my discharge. I smiled when I thought of how helpless I had stood there in the rain. It made me realize how far from the old rut I had traveled.
Then I thought of the old chap who had sold newspapers, and wondered if he was still working on his beat. Ilooked about for him and, sure enough, there he was, wearing the same ancient discolored straw hat. I followed and spoke to him. I had lost all fear now of being submerged in his old-age class. It was noon, and I asked him to go to lunch with me. He gazed in a daze of questioning surprise, then accepted the invitation.
I took him to a quiet little place, where we might have a table to ourselves. During the meal I learned more about him. His name was James Shaw, and he was alone in the world. He talked well-used good English. I had always felt that there must be something of intelligence back of his good clean teeth. And he, too,was an old printer. Probably that was why he had drifted naturally to the selling of newspapers. It is hard for a printer to keep away from the smell of printer’s ink.
Well, the upshot of it was that I hired Jimmy Shaw, and took him back with me to New Jersey. And Jimmy has made good. After he was barbered and hadput on a new suit of clothes, and had his first lessons in Finding Youth, he was as spry and dudish as anything on Broadway.
Then, the final Big Adventure was brought about by my articles in our weekly newspaper.
I had been running a series of articles on my Finding-Youth revelations. Some of them were copied in other newspapers. Ben Hutchins, out in California, read them in our own paper, which we sent him each week. Afterwards, his daughter told me that he showed them to the different guests in the hotel where they were stopping.
Then I wrote an article on the old-age problem. I headed it, “Why the Dump-Heap?” Among other things, I said that one of the biggest social wastes was the waste of the latter years of the lives of men and women. Instead of being a waste product at eighty, a man should be a Life masterpiece-still creative. But we cling-theoretically, at least-to the savage belief that man possessesno other creative power than the sex-function; and that, after they have passed the age of race-propagation, men and women are of no further social use. Savages, not knowing what else to do with their people of years, kill them. We let them stagnate.
By this time we should have learned that Life here, and always, is a thing creative. We are incidentally parents. We are creators always. For if God made us in His own image, then He made us all creators. As creators, we grow. And growth is the law of life. Stagnation is decay and death. We must have new educational methods. We must have new ideals-a new heaven. And this new heaven will be a place filled with creators, instead of with stagnant resters.
Then I went on to suggest that society might organize Youthland colonies, instead of relegating each year so many thousands of men and women to the fate of dependence and stagnation. These colonies might be made centres of bigusefulness, of broad education and creative growth.
I outlined my scheme of a Youthland colony. It should be a place of individual homes, with certain coöperative community buildings-an auditorium and recreation centre, a hotel and laundry, and other things, to make living easier and cheaper. The members of the colony themselves would support all these institutions. For there would be different light industries for the ones who wished to work and earn their own living.
There would be lectures, music, dancing, and classes in science, sociology, politics, psychology, literature, languages, and the arts. Everyone would be given the chance and encouraged to take up any kind of creative work in which he might feel himself capable of qualifying.
Well, Ben Hutchins read this article, and it struck instant fire in him. He didn’t even wait to write. Instead he telegraphed:-
“Youthland colony good scheme. California right place to start one. Amwriting my lawyer to sell printing-plant. You come out here.”
I laughed. Of course I had no idea that he really meant this. I had believed everything that I had written about my colony, but I had painted it with my own imagination. Then I worried. He might be taking this way of selling his plant and letting me out. I lay awake nights, trying to figure some scheme whereby I myself might make a small payment and get hold of the plant.
I had a proposition all framed, when I received a letter from Hutchins. It was-for him-a long letter, dictated to a stenographer. In it he gave me to understand that he was in earnest about the Youthland colony scheme. Indeed, he had already bought a tract of land and was setting to work on the project. He wrote a lot of instructions: informed me that, if he could not sell the newspaper to advantage, he meant to have the plant shipped to California. It would be a necessary adjunct to the colony. He was enthusiastic. His health had greatlyimproved; he was in love with California, and both he and his daughter wanted to stay there. But he must have something with which to busy himself; and this colony scheme had made a big hit with him.
Well, that is how our California Youthland Colony came into existence. It is another story, but I must tell you a few things about it. It is located in a beautiful spot-where “the ocean and the mountains meet.”
We are now a group of five hundred, all owning our own homes. Some of these homes are larger and more pretentious than others; for some of our colony members have good big incomes. Others are poor. But we are all inspired by the same ideals. The poorer ones are given the opportunity to pay for their homes on easy monthly installments.
We have a small canning factory; and we make a fine grade of candied California fruits. We do some rug-weaving and pottery work. We have a dairy andpoultry yards. All of these industries are coöperative in character-owned in common. The same is true of our small inn and laundry. They give employment to the ones who want to make their living. But we have no drones. Every Youthlander works. He also plays. Some devote themselves to raising small-fruits and English walnuts on their individual land tracts. Some teach in our school.
We have all kinds of classes in our school. We have expert instruction in diet, exercise, rest, and the things which make for the best physical condition. It is my intention to incorporate some of these lessons in another book-the methods which we have worked out to our own advantage. We have almost no sickness. Our members are a vigorous, useful, busy lot of folks. They live out-of-door lives twelve months of the year. They are filled with all sorts of progressive interests.They think right thoughts.In connection with our physical work, we have dancing classes, also a hiking club that makes interesting trips.
An ex-college president has charge of our educational work. A retired manufacturer is general director of our industries. And these two men are not using any back-number methods. Both are inspired by the spirit of youth. They combine with the modern the best values brought out of their long experience.
Some of our members have been encouraged to write. A number are studying music. Mattie, my wife, is enjoying that privilege. One woman of seventy, who never before had the time or chance to study the piano, has displayed considerable musical ability. In a good-sized French class, no member is under sixty. And there are two art classes.
Ben Hutchins is the colony’s shrewd buyer. He drives his own car out through the country, and contracts for the fruit that is put up in our cannery. They made me the first colony president, and each year have insisted on reëlecting me. Next year I am going to decline. I don’t want to get into the presidential rut. Jimmy Shaw is foreman of the job departmentin our printery. Jimmy has had a romance which he has given me permission to tell some time.
My son George and his family are with us. This year we are expecting Walter and his family for a visit. I was able also to bring Miss Marsh out to our colony. I feel that I owe her a very big debt.
Miss Marsh has let her hair grow gray; and the color now in her cheeks has been put there by the Californian sunshine. But she looks years younger than when she was trying to live an artificial youth. She is, in fact, quite radiant. For she is satisfying a big heart-hunger. My wife always contended that she was a lonely little creature. But even Mattie was surprised to discover that Miss Marsh’s loneliness was due to a craving motherhood. She is now one of the nurses who have the care of the colony’s children. For we have about thirty children-orphans who would have been sent to state institutions. We have adopted them, and are bringing them up and educating them. We father and mother, uncleand aunt, and grandfather and grandmother them. Happy little Miss Marsh is seldom seen without one of our colony babies in her arms.