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DON'T care for my work; it doesn't suit me. If I could only find something I liked and was interested in, I think I might get on," a shiftless sophomore said to me a few days ago.

As he spoke I called to mind the figure of an old man I had seen the last time I passed through the country town where I spent my childhood. He was sitting on the station platform whittling and watching the train go through. He was bent, unshaven, unkempt,—the living picture of failure.

I saw him first when I was seven and he a strong young fellow of thirty. He was running the grain elevator then with good business prospects, but he didn't like it; it did not seem to suit him. He had talents. He sang in the church choir, he led the village band, he presided at public meetings.