As I write this sentence， I can look out of my window and seesome dinosaur tracks in my gardendinosaur tracks embeddedin shale and stone. I purchased those dinosaur tracks from thePeabody Museum of Yale University； and I have a letter from thecurator of the Peabody Museum， saying that those tracks weremade 180 million years ago. Even a Mongolian idiot wouldn’tdream of trying to go back 180 million years to change thosetracks. Yet that would not be any more foolish than worryingbecause we can’t go back and change what happened 180 secondsago—and a lot of us are doing just that To be sure， we may dosomething to modify the effects of what happened 180 secondsago； but we can’t possibly change the event that occurred then.
There is only one way on God’s green footstool that the pastcan be constructive； and that is by calmly analysing our pastmistakes and profiting by them—and forgetting them.
I know that is true； but have I always had the courage andsense to do it？ To answer that question， let me tell you abouta fantastic experience I had years ago. I let more than threehundred thousand dollars slip through my fingers withoutmaking a penny’s profit. It happened like this：
I launched a large-scale enterprise in adult education， openedbranches in various cities， and spent money lavishly in overheadand advertising. I was so busy with teaching that I had neither thetime nor the desire to look after finances. I was too naive to realisethat I needed an astute business manager to watch expenses.
Finally， after about a year， I discovered a sobering andshocking truth. I discovered that in spite of our enormous intake，we had not netted any profit whatever. After discovering that， Ishould have done two things.
First， I should have had the sense to do what GeorgeWashington Carver， the Negro scientist， did when he lost fortythousand dollars in a bank crash—the savings of a lifetime. Whensomeone asked him if he knew he was bankrupt， he replied： “Yes，I heard”—and went on with his teaching. He wiped the loss out ofhis mind so completely that he never mentioned it again.
Here is the second thing I should have done： I should haveanalysed my mistakes and learned a lasting lesson.
But frankly， I didn’t do either one of these things. Instead， Iwent into a tailspin of worry. For months I was in a daze. I lostsleep and I lost weight. Instead of learning a lesson from thisenormous mistake， I went right ahead and did the same thingagain on a smaller scale！
It is embarrassing for me to admit all this stupidity； but Idiscovered long ago that “it is easier to teach twenty what weregood to be done than to be one of twenty to follow mine ownteaching.”
How I wish that I had had the privilege of attending the GeorgeWashington High School here in New York and studying underMr. Brandwine—the same teacher who taught Allen Saunders， of Woodycrest Avenue， Bronx， New York！
Mr. Saunders told me that the teacher of his hygiene class， Mr.
Brandwine， taught him one of the most valuable lessons he hadever learned.
“I was only in my teens，” said Allen Saunders as he told methe story， “but I was a worrier even then. I used to stew and fretabout the mistakes I had made. If I turned in an examination paper， I used to lie awake and chew my fingernails for fear Ihadn’t passed. I was always living over the things I had done， andwishing I’d done them differently； thinking over the things I hadsaid， and wishing I’d said them better.
“Then one morning， our class filed into the science laboratory，and there was the teacher， Mr. Brandwine， with a bottle ofmilk prominently displayed on the edge of the desk. We all satdown， staring at the milk， and wondering what it had to do withthe hygiene course he was teaching. Then， all of a sudden， Mr.Brandwine stood up， swept the bottle of milk with a crash intothe sink—and shouted： ‘don’t cry over spilt milk！’
“He then made us all come to the sink and look at the wreckage.
‘take a good look，’ he told us， ‘because I want you to remember thislesson the rest of your lives. That milk is gone you can see it’s downthe drain； and all the fussing and hair-pulling in the world won’tbring back a drop of it. With a little thought and prevention， thatmilk might have been saved. But it’s too late now—all we can dois write it off， forget it， and go on to the next thing.’
“That one little demonstration，” Allen Saunders told me， “stuckwith me long after I’d forgotten my solid geometry and Latin. Infact， it taught me more about practical living than anything elsein my four years of high school. It taught me to keep from spillingmilk if I could； but to forget it completely， once it was spilled andhad gone down the drain.”
