DALE CARNEGIE Premium Collection. Dale Carnegie

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      QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

      1. In the following, speak the words "long, long while" very slowly; the rest of the sentence is spoken in moderately rapid tempo.

       When you and I behind the Veil are past,

       Oh but the long, long while the world shall last,

       Which of our coming and departure heeds,

       As the seven seas should heed a pebble cast.

      Note: In the following selections the passages that should be given a fast tempo are in italics; those that should be given in a slow tempo are in small capitals. Practise these selections, and then try others, changing from fast to slow tempo on different parts, carefully noting the effect.

2. No MIRABEAU, NAPOLEON, BURNS, CROMWELL, NO man ADEQUATE to DO ANYTHING but is first of all in RIGHT EARNEST about it—what I call A SINCERE man. I should say SINCERITY, a GREAT, DEEP, GENUINE SINCERITY, is the first CHARACTERISTIC of a man in any way HEROIC. Not the sincerity that CALLS itself sincere. Ah no. That is a very poor matter indeed—A SHALLOW, BRAGGART, CONSCIOUS sincerity, oftenest SELF-CONCEIT mainly. The GREAT MAN'S SINCERITY is of a kind he CANNOT SPEAK OF. Is NOT CONSCIOUS of.—THOMAS CARLYLE.

      3. TRUE WORTH is in BEING—NOT SEEMING—in doing each day that goes by SOME LITTLE GOOD, not in DREAMING of GREAT THINGS to do by and by. For whatever men say in their BLINDNESS, and in spite of the FOLLIES of YOUTH, there is nothing so KINGLY as KINDNESS, and nothing so ROYAL as TRUTH.—Anonymous.

      4. To get a natural effect, where would you use slow and where fast tempo in the following?

      FOOL'S GOLD

      See him there, cold and gray,

       Watch him as he tries to play;

       No, he doesn't know the way—

       He began to learn too late.

       She's a grim old hag, is Fate,

       For she let him have his pile,

       Smiling to herself the while,

       Knowing what the cost would be,

       When he'd found the Golden Key.

       Multimillionaire is he,

       Many times more rich than we;

       But at that I wouldn't trade

       With the bargain that he made.

       Came here many years ago,

       Not a person did he know;

       Had the money-hunger bad—

       Mad for money, piggish mad;

       Didn't let a joy divert him,

       Didn't let a sorrow hurt him,

       Let his friends and kin desert him,

       While he planned and plugged and hurried

      On his quest for gold and power.

       Every single wakeful hour

       With a money thought he'd dower;

       All the while as he grew older,

       And grew bolder, he grew colder.

       And he thought that some day

       He would take the time to play;

       But, say—he was wrong.

       Life's a song;

       In the spring

       Youth can sing and can fling;

       But joys wing

       When we're older,

       Like birds when it's colder.

       The roses were red as he went rushing by,

       And glorious tapestries hung in the sky,

       And the clover was waving

       'Neath honey-bees' slaving;

       A bird over there

       Roundelayed a soft air;

       But the man couldn't spare

       Time for gathering flowers,

       Or resting in bowers,

       Or gazing at skies

       That gladdened the eyes.

       So he kept on and swept on

       Through mean, sordid years.

       Now he's up to his ears

       In the choicest of stocks.

       He owns endless blocks

       Of houses and shops,

       And the stream never stops

       Pouring into his banks.

       I suppose that he ranks

       Pretty near to the top.

       What I have wouldn't sop

       His ambition one tittle;

       And yet with my little

       I don't care to trade

      With the bargain he made.

       Just watch him to-day—

       See him trying to play.

       He's come back for blue skies.

       But they're in a new guise—

       Winter's here, all is gray,

       The birds are away,

       The meadows are brown,

       The leaves lie aground,

       And the gay brook that wound

       With a swirling and whirling

       Of waters, is furling

       Its bosom in ice.

       And he hasn't the price,

       With all of his gold,

       To buy what he sold.

       He knows now the cost

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