I am proud of my father's heroic death at Gettysburg; in fact I am a
member, by virtue of his rank in the Union Army, of what is called The
Loyal Legion. But have I ever fully considered that he died for me? Have
I been loyal to him? Would he be proud or otherwise--_is_ he proud or
otherwise of me, his son? That is a question I can only answer after I
have ascertained just what I am.

Now for over quarter of a century I have worked hard--harder, I believe,
than most men. From a child I was ambitious. As a boy, people would
point to me and say that I would get ahead. Well, I have got ahead. Back
in the town where I was born I am spoken of as a "big man." Old men and
women stop me on the main street and murmur: "If only your father could
see you now!" They all seem tremendously proud of me and feel confident
that if he could see me he would be happy for evermore. And I know they
are quite honest about it all. For they assume in their simple hearts
that my success is a real success. Yet I have no such assurance about
it.

Every year I go back and address the graduating class in the high
school--the high school I attended as a boy. And I am "Exhibit A"--the
tangible personification of all that the fathers and mothers hope their
children will become. It is the same way with the Faculty of my college.
They have given me an honorary degree and I have given them a drinking
fountain for the campus. We are a mutual-admiration society.

I am always picked by my classmates to preside at our reunions, for I am
the conspicuous, shining example of success among them. They are proud
of me, without envy. "Well, old man," they say, "you've certainly made
a name for yourself!" They take it for granted that, because I have made