we will through them inquire when and why we call things good.

Here is a knife. When is it a good knife? Why, a knife is made for
something, for cutting. Whenever the knife slides evenly through a
piece of wood, unimpeded by anything in its own structure, and with a
minimum of effort on the part of him who steers it, when there is no
disposition of its edge to bend or break, but only to do its appointed
work effectively, then we know that a good knife is at work. Or,
looking at the matter from another point of view, whenever the handle
of the knife neatly fits the hand, following its lines and presenting
no obstruction, so that it is a pleasure to use it, we may say that in
these respects also the knife is a good knife. That is, the knife
becomes good through adaptation to its work, an adaptation realized in
its cleavage of the wood and in its conformity to the hand. Its
goodness always has reference to something outside itself, and is
measured by its performance of an external task. A similar goodness is
also found in persons. When we call the President of the United States
good, we mean that he adapts himself easily and efficiently to the
needs of his people. He detects those needs before others fully feel
them, is sagacious in devices for meeting them, and powerful in
carrying out his patriotic purposes through whatever selfish
opposition. The President's goodness, like the knife's, refers to
qualities within him only so far as these are adjusted to that which
lies beyond.

Or take something not so palpable. What glorious weather! When we woke
this morning, drew aside our curtains and looked out, we said "It is a
good day!" And of what qualities of the day were we thinking? We
meant, I suppose, that the day was well fitted to its various
purposes. Intending to go to our office, we saw there was nothing to