Memory makes money pdf

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The Little Book of Main Street Money: 21 Simple Truths that Help Real People Make Real Money (Little Books. Big Profits)

You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www. Toward the close of a memory makes money pdf September afternoon, in one of the years when the big stick of President Roosevelt was cudgeling the shoulders of malefactors of great wealth, the feverish home-bound masses which poured into upper Fifth Avenue with the awakening of the electric night were greeted by the strangest of all spectacles which can astound a metropolitan crowd harassed by the din of sounds, the fret and fury of the daily struggle which is the tyranny of New York. A very young man, of clean-cut limbs and boyish countenance, absolutely unhurried amidst the press, without a trace of preoccupation, worry, or painful mental concentration, was swinging easily up the Avenue as though he were striding among green fields, head up, shoulders squared like a grenadier, without a care in the world, so visibly delighted at the novelty of gay crowds, of towering buildings decked in electric garlands, of theatric shop-windows, that memory makes money pdf than one perceiving this open enthusiasm smiled with a tolerant amusement. Now when a young man appears thus on Fifth Avenue, undriven, without preoccupation, without a contraction of the brows and particularly without that strained metropolitan gaze of trying to decide something of importance, either he is on his way to the station with a coveted vacation ahead or he has been in the city less than twenty-four hours. In the present instance the latter hypothesis was true. Tom Beauchamp Crocker, familiarly known as Bojo, had sent his baggage ahead, eager to enjoy the delights one enjoys at twenty-four, which the long apprenticeship of school and college is ended and the city is waiting with all the mystery of that uncharted dominion—The World. He went his way with long, swinging steps, smiling from the pure delight of being alive, amazed at everything: at the tangled stream of nations flowing past him; at the prodigious number of entrancing eyes which glanced at him from under provoking brims; at the sheer flights of blazing windows, shutting out the feeble stars; at the vigor and vitality on the sidewalks; at the flooded lights from sparkling shop windows; at the rolling procession of incalculable wealth on the Avenue.

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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www. Toward the close of a pleasant September afternoon, in one of the years when the big stick of President Roosevelt was cudgeling the shoulders of malefactors of great wealth, the feverish home-bound masses which poured into upper Fifth Avenue with the awakening of the electric night were greeted by the strangest of all spectacles which can astound a metropolitan crowd harassed by the din of sounds, the fret and fury of the daily struggle which is the tyranny of New York.

A very young man, of clean-cut limbs and boyish countenance, absolutely unhurried amidst the press, without a trace of preoccupation, worry, or painful mental concentration, was swinging easily up the Avenue as though he were striding among green fields, head up, shoulders squared like a grenadier, without a care in the mone, so visibly delighted at the novelty of gay crowds, of towering buildings decked in electric garlands, of theatric shop-windows, that more than one perceiving this open enthusiasm smiled with a tolerant amusement.

Now when a young man appears thus on Fifth Avenue, undriven, without preoccupation, without a contraction of mkaes brows and particularly without that strained metropolitan gaze of trying to decide something of importance, either he is on his way to the station with a coveted vacation ahead or he has been in the city less than twenty-four hours.

In the present instance the latter hypothesis was true. Tom Beauchamp Crocker, familiarly known as Bojo, had sent his baggage ahead, eager to enjoy the delights one enjoys at twenty-four, which the long apprenticeship of school and college is ended and the city is waiting with all the mystery of that uncharted dominion—The World. He went his way with long, maked steps, smiling from the pure delight of being alive, amazed at everything: at the tangled stream of nations flowing past him; at the prodigious number of entrancing eyes which glanced at him from under provoking brims; at the sheer flights of blazing windows, shutting out the feeble stars; at the vigor and vitality on the sidewalks; at the flooded lights from sparkling shop moeny at the rolling procession of incalculable wealth on the Avenue.

Everywhere was the stir of returning crowds, the end of the summer’s hot isolation, the reopening of gilded theaters, the thronging of hotels, and the displays of radiant shop fronts, preparing for moeny winter’s campaign. In the crush of the Avenue was memiry note of home-coming, in taxicabs and coups piled high with luggage and brown-faced children hanging at the windows, acclaiming familiar landmarks with piping cries.

Tradesmen and all the world of little business, all mmakes world that must prepare to feed, clothe, and amuse the winter metropolis, were pouring in. And in the midst of this feverish awaking of luxury and pleasure one felt at every turn a new generation of young men storming every avenue with high imaginations, eager to maakes the multitudes and emerge as masters.

Bojo himself had not woven his way three blocks before ;df felt this imperative need of a stimulating dream, a career to emulate—a master of industry or a master of men—and, sublimely confident, he imagined that some day, not too distant, he would take his place in the luxurious flight of automobiles, a personage, a future Morgan or a future Roosevelt, to be instantly recognized, to hear his name on a thousand lips, never doubting that life was only a greater game than the games he had played, ruled by the same spirit of fair play with the ultimate prize to the best man.

In the crowd he perceived a familiar figure, a college mate of the class above him, and he hailed him with enthusiasm as though the most amazing and delightful thing in the world was to be out of college on Fifth Avenue and to meet a friend.

Hallo there! At this greeting the young man stopped, shot out his hand, and rattled off in business manner: «Why, Bojo, how are you? How’s it going? Making lots of money? You’re looking fine. I’m in the devil of a rush—call me up at the club some time. Good luck. He was gone with purposeful steps, lost in the quick, nervous crowd before Crocker with a thwarted sense of comradeship could recover. A little later another acquaintance responded to his greeting, hesitated, and offered his hand.

You look prosperous; making lots of money, I suppose. Glad to have seen you—so long. For a second time he felt a sense mempry disappointment. Every one seemed in a hurry, oppressed by the hundred details to be crowded into the too short day. He became aware of this haste in the air and in the street.

In this speed-driven world even the great stone flights seemed to have risen with the hour. Dazzling electric signs flashed in and out, transferring themselves into bewildering combinations with the necessity of startling this wonder-surfeited city into an instant’s recognition.

Electricity was in the vibrant air, in the scurrying throngs, in the nervous craving of the crowd for excitement after drudgery, to be out, to be seen in brilliant restaurants, to go with the rushing throngs, keyed to a higher tension, avid of lights and thrumming sounds. Insensibly he felt the stimulus about him, his own gait adjusted itself to the rush of those who jostled past. He began to watch for openings, to dart ahead, to slip through this group and that, weaving his way as though there was something precious ahead, an object to be gained by the first arrival.

All at once he perceived how unconsciously he had surrendered to the subtle spirit of contention about him, and pulled himself up, laughing. At this moment an arm was slipped through his and he turned to find a classmate, Bob Crowley, at his. I saw Marsh and old Granny yesterday. The Big Four still keeping together? The salutation came like a trick to his lips before he noticed the adoption. Crowley looked rather pleased. Pff you’ve got any loose change I can put you on to a cinch. Step into the club a moment.

You’ll memoyr a lot of the crowd. At the club, an immense hotel filled with businesslike young men rushing in and rushing out, thronging the grill-room with hats and coats on, an eye to the clock, Bojo was acclaimed mames that rapturous campus enthusiasm which greets a returned hero. The tribute pleased him, after the journey through the indifferent multitude.

It was something to return as even a moderate-sized frog to the small puddle. He wandered from group to group, ensconced at round tables for a snatched moment before the call of the evening. Speculation was in the air. The bonanza age of American finance was reaching its climax.

Immense corporations were being formed overnight and stocks were mounting by bounds. All the talk in corners was of this tip and that while in the jumble staccato sentences struck his ear. All the talk was of business and opportunity, among these graduates of a year or two, eager and restless, all keen, all confident of arriving, all maakes with vulture-like sharpness for an opportunity for a killing: a stock that was bound to shoot up or to tumble.

Every one seemed to be making money or certain to do so soon, cocksure of his opinion, prognosticating the trend of industry with sure mastery.

Bojo was rather dazed by this academic fervor for material success; it gave him the feeling that the world was after all only a postgraduate course.

He had left a group, with a beginning of critical amusement, when a hand spun him around and he heard a well-known voice cry:. It was Roscoe Marsh, chum of chums, rather slight, negligently dressed among these young men of rather precise elegance, but dominating them all by the shock of an aggressive personality that stood out against their factoried types. Just as the generality of men incline to the fashions of conduct, philosophy, and politics of the day, there are certain individualities constituted by nature to be instinctively of the opposition.

Marsh, finding himself in a complacent society, became a terrific radical, perhaps more from the necessity of dramatic sensations which was inherent in omney brilliant nature than from a profound conviction.

His features were irregular, the nose powerful and aquiline, the eyebrows arched with a suggestion of eloquence and imagination, the eyes gray and domineering, the mouth wide and expressive of every changing thought, while the outstanding ears on the thin, curved head completed an accent of oddity and obstinacy which he himself had characterized good-humoredly when he had described himself as looking like a poetical calf.

Roscoe Marsh, the father—editor, politician, and capitalist, one of the figures of the last generation—had died, leaving him a fortune. When did you come? You’re a pampered darling, Bojo, to get a summer off. I say, is every one making money in this place? I’ve heard nothing else since I landed. I say, what are you going to do? No use my tempting you with a newspaper job. But how about your Governor?

Bojo became quiet, whistling to. You know mmakes he thinks of Wall Street. In college the saying was that Marsh would sputter but Crocker would stick, and this byword expressed the difference between. One attacked and the other entrenched. Crocker had an intense admiration for Marsh, for whom he believed all things possible.

As they walked side by side, Bojo was the more agreeable to the eye; there was an instinctive sense of pleasing about. He liked most men, so genuinely interested in their problems and point of view that few could resist his good nature. Mentally and in the knowledge of the world he was much the younger.

There was a boyishness and an unsophistication about him that was in the clear forehead and laughing brown eyes, in the spontaneous quality of his smile, the spring in his feet, the general enthusiasm for all that was new or difficult.

But underneath this easy manner there was a dangerous obstinacy ready to flare up at an instant’s provocation, which showed in the lower jaw slightly undershot, which gave the lips a look of being pugnaciously compressed.

He was implacable in a hatred or a fight, blind to the faults of a friend, and stubborn in his opinions. Wait till you see it—you’d never believe it. Hidden as safe as a needle in a haystack. No more than memogy stone’s throw from here, and jakes never guess it. Marsh, who could never brook waiting, without having altered his pace made a wide detour amid a jam of automobiles, dodged two surface cars and a file of trucks, and mohey at the opposite curb considerably after Crocker, who had waited for the direct route.

Neither perceived how characteristic of their divergent temperaments this incident had. But Marsh, whose spirit was irreverence, exclaimed contemptuously:. What a sham! There are not ten buildings on it that will last five years. Take away the electric advertisements and you’ll see it as it is—a main street in a mining town. All the rest is shanty civilization, that will come tumbling memory makes money pdf like a pack of cards.

Look at it; a few hidden theaters with an entrance squeezed between a cigar-store and a haberdashery, restaurants on one floor, and the rest advertisements. It does wake you up. Well, never makees here we are. Rub your eyes. They had monet the roar and brilliancy of the curiously blended mass behind, plunging down a squalid side street with tenements in the dark distances, when Marsh came to a stop before two green pillars, above which a swaying sign announced Before Bojo could recover from his astonishment, he found himself conducted through a long, irregular monastic hall flooded with mellow lights and sudden arches, and as bewilderingly introduced, in a sort of Arabian Nights adventure, into an oasis of quiet and green things.

They were in an inner court shut in from the outer world by the rise of a towering wall at one end and at the other by the blazing glass back of a great restaurant. In the heart of the noisiest, vilest, most brutal struggle of the city lay this little bit of the Old World, decked in green plots, with vine-covered fountain and a stone Cupid perched on tip-toe, and above a group of dream trees filling the lucent yellow and green enclosure with a miraculous foliage.

Lights blazed in a score of windows above them, while at four medieval entrances, of curved doorways majes sloping green aprons, the suffused glow of iron lanterns seemed like distant signals lost in a fog.

Everything about them was so remote from the stress and fury out of which they had stepped, that Bojo exclaimed in astonishment:. That’s what a touch of imagination can do in New York. I say, look over. What do you think of this for a quiet pipe at night?

How to triple your memory by using this trick — Ricardo Lieuw On — TEDxHaarlem

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