Pericles said， twenty-four centuries ago： “come， gentlemen，we sit too long on trifles.” We do， indeed！ Here is one of the mostinteresting stories that Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick ever told—astory about the battles won and lost by a giant of the forest：On the slope of Long’s Peak in Colorado lies the ruin of3 gigantic tree. Naturalists tell us that it stood for some fourhundred years. It was a seedling when Columbus landed at SanSalvador， and half grown when the Pilgrims settled at Plymouth.
During the course of its long life it was struck by lightningfourteen times， and the innumerable avalanches and storms offour centuries thundered past it. It survived them all. In the end，however， an army of beetles attacked the tree and leveled it to theground. The insects ate their way through the bark and graduallydestroyed the inner strength of the tree by their tiny but incessantattacks. A forest giant which age had not withered， nor lightningblasted， nor storms subdued， fell at last before beetles so smallthat a man could crush them between his forefinger and histhumb.
Aren’t we all like that battling giant of the forest? Don’t wemanage somehow to survive the rare storms and avalanches andlightning blasts of We， only to let our hearts be eaten out by littlebeetles of worry—little beetles that could be crushed between afinger and a thumb?
A few years ago， I travelled through the Teton National Park，in Wyoming， with Charles Seifred， highway superintendent forthe state of Wyoming， and some of his friends. We were all goingto visit the John D. Rockefeller estate in the park. But the car inwhich I was riding took the wrong turn， got lost， and drove up tothe entrance of the estate an hour after the other cars had gone in. Mr. Seifred had the key that unlocked the private gate， so hewaited in the hot， mosquito-infested woods for an hour until wearrived. The mosquitoes were enough to drive a saint insane. Butthey couldn’t triumph over Charles Seifred. While waiting for us，he cut a limb off an aspen tree-and made a whistle of it. Whenwe arrived， was he cussing the mosquitoes? No， he was playinghis whistle. I have kept that whistle as a memento of a man whoknew how to put trifles in their place.
To break the worry habit before it breaks you， here is：Rule 2： Let’s not allow ourselves to be upset by small things weshould despise and forget. Remember “Life is too short to be little.”
Chapter 38
A Law That Will Outlaw Many of Your Worries
As a child， I grew up on a Missouri farm; and one day， whilehelping my mother pit cherries， I began to cry. My mother said：“Dale， what in the world are you crying about?” I blubbered：“I’mafraid I am going to be buried alive！”
I was full of worries in those days. When thunderstorms came，I worried for fear I would be killed by lightning. When hardtimes came， I worried for fear we wouldn’t have enough to eat.
I worried for fear I would go to hell when I died. I was terrifiedfor fear an older boy， Sam White， would cut off my big ears—ashe threatened to do. I worried for fear girls would laugh at me ifI tipped my hat to them. I worried for fear no girl would ever bewilling to marry me. I worried about what I would say to my wifeimmediately after we were married. I imagined that we would bemarried in some country church， and then get in a surrey withfringe on the top and ride back to the farm… but how would I beable to keep the conversation going on that ride back to the farm?
How? How? I pondered over that earth-shaking problem formany an hour as I walked behind the plough.
As the years went by， I gradually discovered that ninety-ninepercent of the things I worried about never happened.
For example， as I have already said， I was once terrified oflightning; but I now know that the chances of my being killed bylightning in any one year are， according to the National SafetyCouncil， only one in three hundred and fifty thousand.
My fear of being buried alive was even more absurd： I don’timagine that one person in ten million is buried alive; yet I oncecried for fear of it.
One person out of every eight dies of cancer. If I had wantedsomething to worry about， I should have worried about cancer—
instead of being killed by lightning or being buried alive.
To be sure， I have been talking about the worries of youth andadolescence. But many of our adult worries are almost as absurd.
You and I could probably eliminate nine-tenths of our worriesright now if we would cease our fretting long enough to discoverwhether， by the law of averages， there was any real justificationfor our worries.
The most famous insurance company on earth—Lloyd’s ofLondon—has made countless millions out of the tendency ofeverybody to worry about things that rarely happen. Lloyd’s ofLondon bets people that the disasters they are worrying aboutwill never occur. However， they don’t call it betting. They call itinsurance. But it is really betting based on the law of averages.
This great insurance firm has been going strong for two hundredyears; and unless human nature changes， it will still be goingstrong fifty centuries from now by insuring shoes and ships andsealing-wax against disasters that， by the law of average， don’thappen nearly so often as people imagine.
