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The other day I watched a young fellow backing up a big work horse. A tug of the reins and a few words guided the horse wherever the lad wanted. With the veriest ease the animal might have dragged the boy any where. However, it was a simple demonstration of the power of the will. In just such a way as this boy guided the strong horse as he willed may we guide ourselves by our will power. So long as we make up our minds to do a thing we will have control of ourselves. But just as scon as we allow doubt to feel its real strength and power over us we are lost.

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What is thrift? It is living within one's income, anticipating the future and making provision for old age. What a sad sight to see old men bent with years of toil, struggling under heavy burdens or those who have given out physically and are dependent on the generosity of relatives or friends. While in young and vigorous manhood they gave no thought for the future-they lived up to all that they earned; they did not compel their selfish bodies to save fuel for the autumn blasts.

Thrift is not an instinct; it is an acquired. habit formed to counteract a natural tendency. By nature we are all spendthrifts and to save often requires Spartan discipline. It has been said that "Americans are a thriftless race." Every foreign visitor observes this fact. The nation dissipates more energy, mentally and physically, in the accumulation of wealth than any other and is, at the same time, more assiduously engaged than any other in devising frivolous ways and means of spending that wealth." Do not eat up or wear up all that you earn; resolve to put away part of your salary-do not form a half-hearted resolve, but

one that if made, where the world could hear, it would know that you mean business. Νο matter in what condition of life a man is born the acquisition of a habit of thrift will make him a better man and a better citizen.

Wherever we go we find the "dandy," the well dressed "sport" who adorns his person with fine clothes and boots, and like the vain peacock believes in "showing off," but ask many of these "dandies" to deliver a short address or write a brief article on some important subject, and they reveal the brain of an oyster and a backbone as soft as a stick of macaroni.

How much better to give attention to the development of the brain rather than the building of a reputation as a "dandy." A few well chosen words reveal the caliber of a man-a few well made clothes prove only the skill of his tailor. A beautiful mind is, if anything, everlasting; handsome apparel only the object

of an hour. Don't strive for outward showlook at and care for what is within because character and not your dress is the pride of vour worthy friends and the making of your future.

Benjamin Franklin was not a college man. His education was received through the study habit acquired in his youth, and which soon became a pleasure to him and a comfort in his old age. Franklin was a printer, a publisher, a proof-reader, a linguist, a scientist, a financier, a diplomat, a philosopher. In his autobiography he says: autobiography he says: "In this little club called the Junta, were seven young men. We met weekly to read and discuss the papers we had prepared. If any one of us traveled we wrote letters back to the rest. This writing to some one, and the preparation of lessons led to mental growth in us all and the acquisition of the study habit without which there is no progression."

The editor of Common Sense would be glad to hear from young men and women who are ambitious and willing to devote their spare hours to self culture and home study. Write him relative to your ambitions-what you are striving to do—the ultimate goal you intend to reach-it may be that a few suggestions will be of great benefit to you. Those who are interested in the Study Habit who need advice as to what study to pursue are requested to ask any questions upon which they desire information.

THINGS FRANCE CAN TEACH US

HOW THE FRENCH SAVE THE SOUS-SENSIBLE MARRIAGES-THE INSTINCT OF ARTISTIC TASTE-REAL DEMOCRACY

By Rollyn Lynde Hartt

The author goes into detail on this subject, using as his theme a recent report of the American Consul General, Mr. Mason. We greatly regret that space forbids our publishing the complete article, but have selected points of especial interest to the readers of COMMON-SENSE. In writing on "Things France Can Teach Us" in The World's Work Mr. Hartt quotes from Mr. Mason's report as follows: "It is well known that notwithstanding limited resources in coal and metals, with not a pound of cotton or petroleum, with a stationary population and heavy burdens of public debt, France is one of the most prosperous nations. The underlying causes of this prosperity are a genial climate, intensive cultivation of a fertile soil, industry and frugality of the working classes, and above all, the instinct of artistic taste, fostered and developed by education and governmental influence until it has become a national attribute."

In other words, Mr. Hartt says: France a handicapped nation has triumphed by the simple and praiseworthy device of using its wits.

The French agriculturist takes thought both for tomorrow and for the centennial or millennial of tomorrow. He tills every available inch of his little holdings and raises them to the highest pitch of productivity compatible with prudence; he conserves their resources by putting back into the soil all he takes out of it; he has been at this for a great many centuries, and the farm-lands of France are today as rich as ever-perhaps richer.

So in industry-especially in the work of French women. By an ingenious employment of their native shrewdness they have found ways to make every moment of the day productive. While tending sheep, vending flowers or newspapers on the curb, guarding railway crossings, or selling tickets in the stations, or while sitting behind the counters of tobacco shops, they diligently ply their needles, and sell their work to the great shops. We associate frivolity with the French people; rather ought we to think of them as incredibly industrious and as taxing their wits to enlarge their industrial efficiency. When

British workers catch their zest and their well-thought-out schemes for application, we shall distance our own best records.

The French Save the Sous.

And as the Gallic mind abhors futility in industry, so it abhors futility in the disposal of the wages of industry. A Frenchman once said to me, "You Anglo-Saxons don't know how to spend money; you waste it." After a long sojourn among us he had concluded that in our handling of money we displayed precisely the traits we attribute to the French-heedlessness, impulsiveness, and an extreme volatility. And when you know France as well as he knew England and America, you will be inclined to agree with him. Behind French thrift lies a series of virtues all too rare-consistency, constancy, self-restraint, seriousness, and especially the readiness to conceive of a man's life as a whole, to plan out that whole and to live up to that plan with heroic determination.

"Paris," said George Warrington Steevens, "is a place where they save sous." It is more than that. What the tourist usually sees tells only a tithe of the. story. He sees parades of "mutualistes" (societies for saving): he sees shop-keepers wrapping parcels in old newspapers; he sees children wearing black pinafores to protect their clothes; he sees countless establishments for mending and dyeing; he sees the middle-class Parisienne lift her

precious skirt ere she takes a seat upon a bench at the wayside, and sit upon her less Then he says precious petticoat. Steevens was right. Paris

wisely, "Ah, yes!

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is a place where they save sous."

Taking a bird's-eye view of his entire earning and spending career, your typical Frenchman sets before himself two perfectly definite objects-the one to provide for the marriage dowries of his children, the other to provide for his own retirement from business. Accordingly, he apportions his income so as to "equalize his budget" and save a predetermined yearly sum. If his income is small he will always ride on the top of an omnibus for a penny instead of inside it for two, always sit on a green bench in the park for nothing

instead of in a chair for a penny, always travel second-class or third, always buy an inexpensive seat at the theater.

Possessing this scrupulously calculated code of economics, carried out to the minutest detail till it becomes a sort of second nature, your Frenchman prepares his soul for gaiety. His lightheartedness is largely temperamental, of course, but it is at the same time due in no small measure to his sense of security in money matters, his consciousness that he is getting on in the world, however ploddingly, and his freedom from that self-reproof which so grieviously embitters the existence of the rasher and less reasonable Anglo-Saxon.

What He Works For.

When I think of the Frenchman's deliberate resolve to retire from business, I endorse it whole-heartedly. Any Frenchman will forgive close-fistedness, but no Frenchman can forgive a man for sticking to his desk all his days. No Frenchman can understand it, for, to the Gallic mind, work is only a means to an end. The great affair of life is not work; it is life itself. And if commercial prowess in England yields its splendid rewards--such rewards as fame, power, and the satisfaction of personal vanity-France has found a way to distribute glory without asking a man to sweat for it till he drops. Whereas the toiling septuagenarian of London may have his palace, his villa, his art-treasures, and his ocean-going steam yacht, and rejoice to see them pictured in the illustrated papers, the septuagenarian of Paris would give them all for the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honour, which, in spite of its widespread distribution, to his mind means a larger fame, a more genuine power, and a more soothing balm to self-esteem. It is for distinction as a man, rather than as a mere winner and ruler of goods and chattels, that he yearns. He honours work; but he views it as the great preacher viewed a certain other factor of human life when he exclaimed, in a generalization no less sane than brilliant, "It is the test of every good institution that it digs its own grave."

The French Press.

Now this world is so constituted that whenever a nation applies its mental energies to securing certain definite advantages, certain minor advantages seem almost to come of themselves and so it is thrift that has given France its small compact newspapers-of from four to eight pages, printed in reasonably coarse type, and containing only the reading matter its subscribers want-whereas we,

with our immense sixteen-page papers in fine print, devote half our attention to deciding what to skip. Thus they supply themselves with newspapers that suit the hand, the eye, and the intelligence. Whatever the failings of French journalism these virtues-together with the dignity that enables them to publish articles by the greatest French authors of the time, and the custom that requires reporters to sign their work--are certainly things to be envied.

And when the postman arrives he doesn't load you down with circulars, prospectuses, announcements and sham letters. The money that is expended-and two-thirds wastedupon that sort of advertising here is mainly saved in France, and everything you purchase is thereby made less expensive. "Send for our free illustrated catalogue" reads like a charity, but the proprietor requires his customers to pay the printer.

The Instinct of Artistic Taste.

Thus far we have followed Mr. Mason's explanation of French prosperity without difficulty, but now we come to what is at first sight a hard saying. He traces that prosperity not only to sane agriculture and to rare industry and frugality, but "above all, to the instinct of artistic taste, fostered and developed by governmental influence until it has become a national attribute." And yet this, too. is easy of comprehension, once you gain a broad conception of artistic taste. It isn't merely the appreciation of beauty in what we call the fine arts-as if no other arts were fine! It is also the appreciation of charm and grace and excellence in all the things that make life agreeable, as well as an appreciation. of noble qualities in all the work of a man's hands. Because of the agreeableness of human existence in France, Frenchmen loathe the thought of emigration; consequently, notwithstanding the appallingly low birth-rate, the country's population has not declined. Because of the agreeableness of human existence in France, vast hordes of tourists and sojourners flock thither to spend lavishly. Because of the rare artistic feeling put into manufactured articles, France maintains an immense export trade, despite all the hostile efforts of rival nations. In these ways taste is minted into money.

Trees and Flowers in Commercial Thorough

fares.

People talk as if trees would not grow in a business street, and certainly they will not and do not, treated as we treat them. If you

were a tree, and the pavement shut away the water from your roots, you would swear a few arboreal oaths, struggle for life a year or so, and then wither and die. If, however, your trunk was encircled by a huge, round grating, six feet across, the moisture would keep you lusty. It is by this simple arrangement, chiefly, that the Grand Boulevards maintain their wealth of greenery.

Another thing the returned traveller misses is flowers. Where are the floral embellishments for theater fronts, restaurants and shops-the urns, the window boxes, the gorgeous hanging baskets? A society in Paris offers prizes for the handsomest flowered balconies. When a tradesman wants to make his establishment conspicuous he dresses it up in the gayest blossoms obtainable.

And yet a commercial thoroughfare wants something more than adornment; it also demands the removal-or at least the mitigation —of disfigurements. In Paris, advertisingthat gravest menace to municipal beautyshrinks to its lowest terms. Instead of letting the bill-sticker cover an enormous flat surface as we do, the French roll the flat surface up into a cylinder, thus producing what they call the advertising pillar. In this way they reduce its diameter by more than half, while the pillar itself has a decorative canopy top, within which a ring of lights gleams prettily at night and illumines the posters. posters. Equally ingenious is the six-sided kiosk, quite picturesque in outline and fitted with panels of translucent glass carrying advertisements. The kiosk becomes a tool-house for streetcleaners' brooms and shovels, and after dark it is lighted from within.

But it is in restraining the hideous atrocities of the "elevated railway" that the French display their finest originality. It avoids the noblest streets, yet even there it has ornamental stone pillars and, wherever possible, a screen of foliage on either side so that you seem almost to be spinning through a forest.

Inside French Homes.

Suppose, now, that we leave the street and see what art, as applied to comfort, has done for the house. Note its usual arrangement around a court and its preference for a garden at the rear. The court lets in air and sunshine, while affording quiet to the rooms looking out upon it; and the garden becomes also a living-room, even a dining-room, if you like, for it is wholly secluded from the highway. Notice also that gravel serves better than grass, since you are not afraid to tread

on it and the rain soaks through it so quickly that you can go out directly after a shower.

As compared with our Gallic cousins, we are an indoor people. They keep in the open air all they can sit there at their pleasure, whenever possible at their work. Besides, they can let the air into their houses far more freely than we can. The French windows, opening like double doors, allow the removal of the whole window from the frame, whereas ours, sliding up and down, leave half the space constantly closed.

Yet it is when you come to the table that you find the most significant contrast between French household ways and those at home. Not only does France know how to cook, it knows how to eat. It takes its time, serves a meal in several courses, never loads its plate to the discouragement of appetite, and regards a luncheon or a dinner as a festal occasion, thereby facilitating digestion and promoting sociability. Incidentally, things taste better, served so daintily.

On this latter point, however, a single remark is worth insisting upon. The striking difference between British and French manners is not that the French people are more polite, but that so many more French people are polite. A hotel clerk receives you as an honoured guest and personally shows you to your room. A shop-keeper inquires solicitously for your health. Your laundress's manner is grace and dignity and sweetness combined. If you go to the great markets at four in the morning, when unspeakably roughlooking men and women are getting their wares into shape for the day and immense loads of beef and vegetables and fish are being moved through the jostling throng of market folk, you will hear only such cries as "Take care, monsieur!" or "Please let me pass, madame!"

Acquiring and Preserving Art Treasures.

And as for the arts distinctively "fine" who, think you, presides over their affairs? A member of the Cabinet. No less a dignitary governs the great museums, the opera, the conservatory of music and the drama, the preservation of public monuments and the restoration of palaces, cathedrals and castles. Artistic taste has been fostered by governmental influence until it has become a national attribute. Technical schools leave their stamp. of elegance upon French manufacturers. Works of art, acquired by the State, fill galleries to overflowing and adorn parks frequented by the very working people. Every

where extends the influence that makes the Frenchman appreciative of noble sentiment wrought into marble and bronze, or made. luminous upon canvas, or infused into exquisite handicrafts.

Perhaps, though, the work of husbanding the legacy of the past gives us a still more practical suggestion. Throughout the country the government prevents the decay of beauty. Witness its guardianship of the ramparts of Aigues-Mortes, the mediaeval city from which St. Louis set forth with his crusaders. Witness also its restoration of the towered walls of Carcassonne. You might name scores of other cases in which relics of bygone ages are saved from ruin, notably the work now in progress at Avignon, where the palace of the Pope is reassuming its ancient glory. And the government's campaign finds allies in associations of private citizens, especially in the Touring Club of France, which is at once a rebuke to our heedlessness in letting old landmarks pass away and to our inability as yet to make those that remain as accessible as they ought to be.

Such, then, are the practical lessons, big and little, that France can teach us. A further lesson, of purely sentimental value, but important for all that, is the lesson of understanding the real France-of seeing the best elements in the nation arrayed against alcoholism, against pornography, against vice and against the many follies and weaknesses we have so shallowly and unjustly called French. They exist in France just as they exist here to a greater or less degree, yet they by no means represent the true genius of the country.

Note The editor believes that every patriotic citizen of the United States will be interested in this article and also in the photograph of that esteemed gentleman, M. Armand Fallieres, President of France, which appears on the cover page of this issue.

What kind of Women Make Good

The woman who makes good must be blessed with strength and health and an ambition to learn and take advantage of every opportunity that comes her way.

She must work with all her heart, play with all her heart; above all things avoiding indifference and the enemy of all progress

She must select the pleasure that will bring her the greatest joy, choose the work she is best fitted for.

Hers is the temperament that recognizes that encouragement is all very nice and pretty. but that if one is going to do the thing that counts one doesn't need it; that refuses to be

dismayed by repeated failures and that has a certain faith that what has been done by one may be done by another; that nobody gets through life without disappointments, heartaches and the breaking of pet illusions; that there is nothing more common than trouble, but that it is the wise ones of earth that keep their burdens in the background.

That's the great lesson of life!

If a woman can't win out with her work and her ambitions because of certain inconveniences in the home, or because the manners of her associates do not please her, the chances are that she will spell out failure in the world.

Ordinary hard luck never ruins people. It puts them in a mood to learn a thing or two. Everybody makes mistakes. With some it is a regular occupation, but to make a mistake and to wail about it, is to make two.

Women often speak of their talents not being appreciated. A talent is next to worthless unless one has the ability to get down to hard, plain, every-day grind.

Then, too, the woman who wins must learn to talk, but not to tell. There is an art-the most consummate art-in appearing absolutely frank to the butcher, the baker and the family cat, and yet not reveal any of one's business affairs.

The woman who wins must be able to hold all and hear all, yet betray it by neither word nor look, by injudicious defense no more than by overt treachery; by anger at a malicious accusation no more than by a smile at an egregious mistake. To be able to do this requires a rare combination of tact and self-respect. One cannot just slide along in business and win promotion and more salary. A knowledge of the business is necessary to show results.

To make good, a woman needs that fine balance, that accurate self-measurement which goes by the name of common sense. It is the one thing on which success depends the most.

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