“In the spring of 1938， I was working out from Versailles，Missouri. The schools were poor， the roads bad； I was so lonelyand discouraged that at one time I even considered suicide. Itseemed that success was impossible. I had nothing to live for. Idreaded getting up each morning and facing life. I was afraid ofeverything： afraid I could not meet the car payments； afraid Icould not pay my room rent； afraid I would not have enough toeat. I was afraid my health was failing and I had no money for adoctor. All that kept me from suicide were the thoughts that mysister would be deeply grieved， and that I did not have enoughmoney to pay my funeral expenses.
“Then one day I read an article that lifted me out of mydespondence and gave me the courage to go on living. I shallnever cease to be grateful for one inspiring sentence in thatarticle. It said： ‘Every day is a new life to a wise man.’
I typed that sentence out and pasted it on the windshieldof my car， where I saw it every minute I was driving. I found itwasn’t so hard to live only one day at a time. I learned to forgetthe yesterdays and to not-think of the tomorrows. Each morningI said to myself： ‘today is a new life.’
“I have succeeded in overcoming my fear of loneliness， myfear of want. I am happy and fairly successful now and have alot of enthusiasm and love for life. I know now that I shall neveragain be afraid， regardless of what life hands me. I know now thatI don’t have to fear the future. I know now that I can live one dayat a time—and that ‘Every day is a new life to a wise man.’”
Who do you suppose wrote this verse：
Happy the man， and happy he alone，
He， who can call to-day his own：
He who， secure within， can say：
“To-morrow， do thy worst， for I have liv’d to-day.”
Those words sound modern， don’t they？ Yet they were writtenthirty years before Christ was born， by the Roman poet Horace.
One of the most tragic things I know about human nature isthat all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of somemagical rose garden over the horizon—instead of enjoying theroses that are blooming outside our windows today.
Why are we such fools—such tragic fools？
“How strange it is， our little procession of life！” wrote StephenLeacock. “The child says： ‘When I am a big boy.’ But what is that？
The big boy says： ‘When I grow up.’ And then， grown up， he says：
‘When I get married.’ But to be married， what is that after all？
The thought changes to ‘When I’m able to retire.’ And then， whenretirement comes， he looks back over the landscape traversed； acold wind seems to sweep over it； somehow he has missed it all，and it is gone. Life， we learn too late， is in the living， in the tissueof every day and hour.”
The late Edward S. Evans of Detroit almost killed himself withworry before he learned that life “is in the living， in the tissue ofevery day and hour.” Brought up in poverty， Edward Evans madehis first money by selling newspapers， then worked as a grocer’sclerk. Later， with seven people dependent upon him for bread andbutter， he got a job as an assistant librarian. Small as the pay was，he was afraid to quit. Eight years passed before he could summonup the courage to start out on his own. But once he started， hebuilt up an original investment of fifty-five borrowed dollars intoa business of his own that made him twenty thousand dollars ayear. Then came a frost， a killing frost. He endorsed a big note fora friend—and the friend went bankrupt. Quickly on top of thatdisaster came another： the bank in which he had all his moneycollapsed. He not only lost every cent he had， but was plungedinto debt for sixteen thousand dollars. His nerves couldn’t take it.
“I couldn’t sleep or eat，” he told me. “I became strangely ill.
Worry and nothing but worry，” he said， “brought on this illness.
