The story goes like this： Kipling married a Vermont girl，Caroline Balestier， built a lovely home in Brattleboro， Vermont；settled down and expected to spend the rest of his life there. Hisbrother-in-law， Beatty Balestier， became Kipling’s best friend.
The two of them worked and played together.
Then Kipling bought some land from Balestier， with theunderstanding that Balestier would be allowed to cut hay off iteach season. One day， Balestier found Kipling laying out a flowergarden on this hayfield. His blood boiled. He hit the ceiling.
Kipling fired right back. The air over the Green Mountains ofVermont turned blue！
A few days later， when Kipling was out riding his bicycle， hisbrother-in-law drove a wagon and a team of horses across theroad suddenly and forced Kipling to take a spill. And Kipling theman who wrote： “If you can keep your head when all about youare losing theirs and blaming it on you”—He lost his own head，and swore out a warrant for Balestier’s arrest ！ A sensational trialfollowed. Reporters from the big cities poured into the town. Thenews flashed around the world. Nothing was settled. This quarrelcaused Kipling and his wife to abandon their American home for the rest of their lives. All that worry and bitterness over a meretrifle！
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 gonein. 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.”