NEVER was there such a clamor for the man who knows his trade! Whether with a pen or hammer, whether with a brush or spade he’s equipped, the world demands him, calls upon him for his skill, and on pay day gladly hands him rolls of roubles from its till. Little boots it what his trade is, building bridges, shoeing mules—men will come from Cork and Cadiz to engage him and his tools. All the world is busy hunting for the workman who’s supreme, whether he is best at punting or at flavoring ice cream.
Up and down the land are treading men who find this world a frost, toiling on for board and bedding, in an age of hustling lost. “We have never had fair chances, Fortune ever used us sore,” they complain, as age advances, and the poorhouse lies before. “Handy men are we,” they mutter, “masters of a dozen trades, yet we can’t earn bread and butter, much less jams and marmalades. When we ask a situation, stern employers cry again: ‘Chase yourselves! This weary nation crowded is with handy men! Learn one thing and learn it fully, learn in something to excel, then you’ll find this old world bully—it will please you passing well!’ Thus reply the stern employers when for work we sadly plead, saying we are farmers, sawyers, tinkers, tailors gone to seed. So we sing our doleful chorus as adown the world we wind, for the poorhouse lies before us, and the free lunch lies behind.”
While this tragedy’s unfolding in each corner of the land, men of skill are still beholding chances rise on every hand; men who learned one thing and learned it up and down and to and fro, got reward because they earned it—men who study, men who Know. If you’re raising sweet potatoes, see that they’re the best on earth; if you’re rearing alligators, see that they’re of special worth; if you’re shoeing dromedaries, shoe the brutes with all your might; if you’re peddling trained canaries, let your birds be out of sight. Whatsoever you are doing, do it well and with a will, and you’ll find the world pursuing, offering to buy your skill.