A SHREWD PHILOSOPHER.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 11685, 29 April 1916, Page 8

A SHREWD PHILOSOPHER.

THOUGHTS OF A FOREST RANGER In his delightful littJo backwoods volume, '"'The Cabin," Mv Stewart Edward Whito lias iho I'ollowing entertaining convcihation in a chapter headed "On the Conduct of Life." California John Oho forest langor) was away on forest business most of the summer. Ucasionally, however, he would ride over (o see up, and one such visit rises in mv mind. I was eross-ouifing a big cedar loo;, stooping over as the long saw hit lower and lower; working oagerl\. The old man rode up on his shining sorrel horse. Star, with hi? inlaid silver hit, bis rawhide bridle, and his beautiful carved leather saddle. Younger rangers mnv go in for the plain and businesslike, and profess more or less contempt for the " fanoy fixings,"' but California •fohn was of Ihe old school. fie nodded, flung one lee; ovet his saddle horn, and watched me some moments. " Hard work," lie proffered after a time. I nodded back. F hod no wind left for conversation. "You bad that sawed way through ten minuter, ago," faid he after a time.

In sheer astonishment at this I quit work and stood upright. "Sawed way through!" I repeated stupidly. "Yes, in your mind." said he. "Your mind's been sawin' that log through a plumb lot quicker than your saw. And you've been just bumpin' tryin' to catch up. That's what makes it hard work. There's your mind stand in' first on one foot and then on the other, plumb .distracted waitiu'; and there's your body all out of breath hustlin' and strajnin' to catch up. 1 That's what makes it such hard work. You're tirin' youiself down, my boy. Ypu got to keep your body and your mind together on the job. Put on brakes attd don't get a thing done before it .is done." v I guit- sawing then and there, for T saw_ California .John was in a dissertative mood, and that is worth much more than any number of cedar rails. " That's the way to enjoy yourself," said the old ranger comfortably. "Trouble is, when a man starts out to do a thing, ho just nat'ra-lly sees it all done before his eyes, and he strains . himself day in and out till it is done. And mebbe it takes a long time to do—a month or two, say. And he hasn't had any fun with himself at all eiidurin' of all that time. He's just plumb wasted a.month or two out of his life; and he probably won't get but one life—here. A man don't want to give a cuss, whether a thing gets done or not, but just whether he keeps workin' along at it. If he does that it's bound to get done, and without worryiu' him. And he ain't so plumb feverish all the time." He slid out of his saddle a.ud squatted down by my cedar log. ORDINARY JOBS.

"If you don't come to that way of thinkin' sooner or later, you get this here nervous prostration,'' said he. J' The world's ehuckftill of tiresome jobs that don't really mean nothin'— washin' cldth'es, and sweepin' floors and choppiu' wood that you burn up, and generally millin' round in a circle that don't get nowhere." " Routine work." I suggested. "Precisely. A man gets a notion that these jobs are wastin' his valuable time; he begins to hustle to get them behind him and out of the way. That means he does a poor job, and gets all wrought up and impatient, and tries to get in a week's work by sundown."

He reached tip to rub his horse's soft

nose. " We got to make up our minds that a Jot of our life is taken up with this routine work—something over and over. Some ought to have sense enough to find real livin' in them as well as in doin' real things. Any job's got a lot of fun-in it, if you ain't in too devil much of a hurry to finish it. You got to' do the job anyway; so von might just as well get the fun. DOING SOMETHING.

Now some books IVe read claim a man ought to make the very best out of himself," he continued', "develop himself all round arid get as high up'in the scale as he can. Then there's others that clai mhe should get out and do something definite—hustle along human progress—or he ain't no good at all. "What do you think about it?" "I suppose a man ought to build something in this -world." "There was the Moorish raid into Spam, ' interjected the old man. " That was a mighty serious affair at the time—worth headlines way across the page, with all sorts of murders, speeches, oppressions and so forth. As near as I can make out the total results was a sort oi old summer resort built of adobe mud." "Adobe?" I repeated, nuzzled. "I forget her name. Place named after her near Lost Angeles." "Oh! The Alhambra!" I cried, with a burst of amusement. "Yes. Well, -what's the use of doin' things?" " Another thing. What did the Lord' make such an everlastin' variety of a world for, anyway? I don't care what you know, or how big a. head you've got, there's about four million j things yon don't know nothin 5 about. You can't take up anything without getting a. whole heap of new knowledge about things "in the world and their nafur\ and how the cussed things act, A thing looks simple and dead' easy tn do—and it ain't." 1 nodded, ray thoughts on my recently and painfully" acquired experience with cedar rails. RE LEARNING. " The Lord's scattered things to learn all over everywhere. 1 care what you pick up, there's enough there to take ad the strength- of your niinu' for a while, anyway." "The world is so full of a number of things I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings/' I quoted. "Who said that?" asked Caiifornian John, like a flash. " Stevenson," .said I.

" Well, he's dead right. Only I thought F was the only fellow that had of it," said, the, old fellow .ruefully.

"There's quite a number of things; and to my notion in His eyes they're; all one about as important as "the other."

"Oh! Hold on!" I cried. "Do you mean to say that you really believe "it's as important to ditch that meadow as to dig the Panama Canal?" " Not to Roosevelt," replied John. " Mebbe to me." Ho let this sink in. " That's why the Lord made such an ( everlasting variety of a world for, so i every man could find his own kind of knowledge. There used to he » fellow down at Toll House, who had been reading those health magazines until he began to eat nuts and raisins and olive oil and pine sawdust and. not"nidi; else. Old Doc Harkncfs was ialkiir to him once- when T was Ihere. ' But. Doc' says ha. ' this ye re editor don't eat, notlnn' else, and he works fifteen hours a day and keeps healthy on it.' 'Sure.' says Doc. 'and ain't they the healthiest sort_ of food:' ' Sure.' says Doc again. ' Then why ' 'Do you like 'emr' the Doc. interrupt--ed him. Wot very well.' .--aid this fellow at the Toll' House. 'Well, then, they ain't healthy for you. That's why there's forty-eleven sorts of grub —so that you can get what you like.' " He. threw back his head and Laughed. EVERYTHING'S IMPORTANT. "So when I figured all that out." ] ie continued, "I see that a. fellow was supposed to stick to what ho ? likes. Everything's important. T don't believe one thing's any more important

than another, if a man's doing what ho likes." "What does count thou?" I asked, a little bewildered. " The man.' . returned California John a little sharply. ''T don't hnow how. hut that's it. If he's the right sort, why he helps the next fellow to bo the right sort, whether ht- tries to or not, and whether ho knows it or not. After a few thousand year of that sort of thing we get somewhere—and it doesn't much matter whe-ther wo get there through a Panama Canal or go by land." "Tf everybody f?!t that way. wo would hnf.e very little material progress,'' 1 offered rathc-r feebly.

''Everybody don't like bogs," returned California John. . . . " flow about th" fellows that don't make anything of themselves? There's a lot of them in ino world." 1 said sceptically. California John rose slowly. Star stooped his glossy head for tho bridle. "His patience ;.-, infinite.'' said the old man solemnly. He reflected for a moment. Thru his eyes turned on me with the twinkling flicker of fun m Iheir depths. "Son." said he. " T'vcoften noted, two things about trees: the stunted, little, twisted fellows have had .•> heap hard time, what with wind and snow and poor soil--a,nd they grow furthest up tno n 'S peaks." Ho swung aboard his horse and gathered up his reins. " Got to see whether old Cook's cattle are trespassin' again." said he. " That old fool will Jccep on until some day I'll call mm everythin' hut a gentle iP a iu"