What about the grocery boy, the newspaper vendor, the chap at the corner who polishes
your shoes? These people are human -bursting with troubles, and dreams, and private
ambitions. They are also bursting for the chance to share them with someone. But do
you ever let them? Do you ever show an eager, honest interest in them or their lives?
That's the sort of thing I mean. You don't have to become a Florence Nightingale or a
social reformer to help improve the world-your own private world; you can start
tomorrow morning with the people you meet!
What's in it for you? Much greater happiness! Greater satisfaction, and pride in yourself!
Aristotle called this kind of attitude "enlightened selfishness". Zoroaster said: "Doing
good to others is not a duty. It is a joy, for it increases your own health and happiness."
And Benjamin Franklin summed it up very simply-"When you are good to others," said
Franklin, "you are best to yourself."
"No discovery of modern psychology," writes Henry C. Link, director of the Psychological
Service Centre in New York, "no discovery of modern psychology is, in my opinion, so
important as its scientific proof of the necessity of self-sacrifice or discipline to self-
realisation and happiness."
Thinking of others will not only keep you from worrying about yourself; it will also help
you to make a lot of friends and have a lot of fun. How? Well, I once asked Professor
William Lyon Phelps, of Yale, how he did it; and here is what he said:
"I never go into a hotel or a barber-shop or a store without saying something agreeable
to everyone I meet. I try to say something that treats them as an individual-not merely a
cog in a machine. I sometimes compliment the girl who waits on me in the store by
telling her how beautiful her eyes are-or her hair. I will ask a barber if he doesn't get tired
standing on his feet all day. I'll ask him how he came to take up barbering- how long he
has been at it and how many heads of hair he has cut. I'll help him figure it out. I find
that taking an interest in people makes them beam with pleasure. I frequently shake
hands with a redcap who has carried my grip. It gives him a new lift and freshens him up
for the whole day. One extremely hot summer day, I went into the dining car of the New
Haven Railway to have lunch. The crowded car was almost like a furnace and the
service was slow.
When the steward finally got around to handing me the menu, I said: 'The boys back
there cooking in that hot kitchen certainly must be suffering today.' The steward began
to curse. His tones were bitter. At first, I thought he was angry. 'Good God Almighty,' he
exclaimed, 'the people come in here and complain about the food. They kick about the
slow service and growl about the heat and the prices. I have listened to their criticisms
for nineteen years and you are the first person and the only person that has ever
expressed any sympathy for the cooks back there in the boiling kitchen. I wish to God
we had more passengers like you.'
"The steward was astounded because I had thought of the coloured cooks as human
beings, and not merely as cogs in the organisation of a great railway. What people
want," continued Professor Phelps, "is a little attention as human beings. When I meet a
man on the street with a beautiful dog, I always comment on the dog's beauty. As I walk
on and glance back over my shoulder, I frequently see the man petting and admiring the
dog. My appreciation has renewed his appreciation.
"One time in England, I met a shepherd, and expressed my sincere admiration for his
big intelligent sheepdog. I asked him to tell me how he trained the dog. As I walked
away, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the dog standing with his paws on the