His Job
THE little cab driver who used to come for me when, on rainy days, I took a taxi to save myself from the inclement weather was a cheerful soul. He was always careful, always courteous, always on time, always considerate of my comfort. He met me late one especially stormy night when the thermometer was down and the wind was cutting like a razor through the heaviest garments.
"Don't you get sick and tired of this dog's life?" I asked as he tucked me snugly into the back seat.
"Oh, no," he replied smiling, "you see it's my job."
The memory of his cheerful face and his suggestive words has helped me often since. When the days have been long, and the callers irritating and the problems difficult to
