HEROES: The Good Man

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A courtly old man, swaddled in topcoat and business suit against the late summer chill, walked into Boisvert’s Barbershop on Cottage Street in the resort town of Bar Harbor, Me., trailed by his chauffeur. He had not phoned ahead for an appointment; nor had he, like many of the wealthy summer residents of Mount Desert* Island, sent the chauffeur down after working hours to bring one of the barbers back to his mansion. “Mr. Rockefeller,” Barber Jim Corbett likes to tell his friends “just comes on in and takes his chances.”

This time John Davison Rockefeller Jr. did not have to wait. He doffed his topcoat, jacket and vest, hung them on a hook on the wall facing the mirrors and four chairs, shouldered into a sweater held out by his chauffeur and sat down in Jim Corbett’s chair. “Would you please close the door?” he asked. Rockefeller, who will be 83 years old next January, is troubled by drafts. He leaned back in the chair, a smock draped about his stocky frame, for the usual haircut and shampoo. Then he began to ply the barber with questions: “How is the season so far?” and “How are the stores doing?”; then “Is there plenty of employment?” Jim Corbett, who picks up most of the talk of the island, was ready with a full briefing: the season was fair, the stores doing better than last year, jobs were plentiful.

His thinning white hair trimmed, shampooed and carefully dried, Rockefeller handed Corbett $5 for the $2.50 job, donned his vest, jacket and topcoat and headed off to the next point on his morning’s itinerary. “Goodbye, Mr. Rockefeller,”said the barber. “Goodbye, Mr. Corbett,” said the man who is known to his friends and associates (but not to his face) as J.D.R. Jr.

Projects in Hand. His missions downtown accomplished, J.D.R. Jr. was driven seven miles back along state Route 3 in his Cadillac limousine to The Eyrie, his gabled, secluded 50-room summer home on a wooded granite ridge 500 yds. back from the slate-grey Atlantic. From the car, his keen eyes swept a faraway view—wild mountains and neat harbors and white-sailed yachts sparkling—then dwelt more closely upon the prim lanes and green lawns that please his sense of economy and precision.

Carefully J.D.R. Jr. stepped out of his car, walked indoors, and soon afterward was busily going through a sheaf of papers at his kneehole desk in the small office to the right of the front door. Though nominally retired since 1954, he is interested in many of the island’s good works. Unobtrusively, he is building a small public park on the old Dane estate on a scenic headland near Seal Harbor, acquiring more land for the island’s roomy Acadia National Park, paying the hospital bills of a local family, laying plans for the removal of more of the unsightly “snags” (tree stumps) left by the 1947 Bar Harbor fire, making up the annual deficit of the Seal Harbor library, encouraging the Seal Harbor Village Improvement Society to keep a neat village green and to provide plenty of parking space. Constantly he is on the phone to friends and associates, asking questions about projects in his soft voice: “What’s the total cost? How much are the others paying? How much can the others raise without me?”

Long on Deeds. At first sight the Old Man in The Eyrie seems an improbable sort of American hero and historymaker, maneuvering about the island with his sets of blueprints and his inevitable 4-ft. rule. He is a middling-sized man with even features, warm and straightforward eyes. He is aloof to the point of inaccessibility; he is shy to the point of pain, finding it almost agonizing to call even his closest friends by their first names. “I don’t see how you do it,” he said one day when two old friends were first-naming each other. “I wish I could, but I just wasn’t built that way.” His neighbors on Mount Desert Island, however, admire and like J.D.R. Jr. built the way he is. “There’s a lot of Yankee in Mr. Rockefeller,” said one. “He’s short on talk, long on deeds.” J.D.R. Jr., as everyone on Mount Desert Island knows, is worth something close to $1 billion. He is also, as everyone knows, the only son of the man who was counted in another day and another dollar the richest man in the world. “I was born into it,” he once explained, “and there was nothing I could do about it. It was there, like air or food or any other element. It was one of the things of the world. The only question with wealth is what you do with it. It can be used for evil purposes, or it can be an instrumentality for constructive social living.”

The Awesome Compulsion. It is because J.D.R. Jr.’s is a life of constructive social giving that he ranks as an authentic American hero, just as certainly as any general who ever won a victory for American arms, or any statesman who triumphed on behalf of U.S. diplomacy. Rockefeller’s life is simply, quietly and uniquely dedicated to his fellow men. Through his compulsive drive to push back the horizons of learning, culture, and opportunity, he has set in motion currents that have influenced the lives of most of his fellow citizens at home and millions of his fellow humans abroad. With an instinctive feeling for the latent resources of the U.S. and the world, he has raised the levels of education, gathered art for all to see, inspired millions with the natural beauty of national park sites, reconstructed the sights and sounds of history in projects such as Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia and the magnificent Stoa in Athens, Greece. He has given a home site to the United Nations, trained most of China’s doctors, directed the efforts of American mission aries abroad, built Manhattan’s breathtaking Rockefeller Center, and in general mobilized the best talent he could find to clear myriad paths toward progress.

But J.D.R. Jr. is more than health statistics or monuments or school buildings or art museums. It can be said, and few would deny it, that the motivation of his life has been to try to carry out the will of God. His deeds and accomplishments quietly mock those cliché experts who believe that not until big Government entered the picture did U.S. capitalism develop a conscience.* For he is a symbol of the stern conscience that has long been the heritage of the same Protestant American ethic that sparked U.S.-style capitalism—a conscience that made a virtue of work and its rewards, but likewise saddled the successful with an awesome compulsion to regard his wealth as a trust, to redistribute one man’s gain for the benefit of many men. Such a conscience was the spiritual forerunner of today’s 7,300 U.S. philanthropic foundations, and set the pattern for large-scale giving that last year ran to $1.5 billion.

Father & Son. If J.D.R. Jr. derived his purpose out of the confluence of wealth and conscience of the late 19th century U.S., he tempered it during lonely, frugal and often discouraging years of seeking and finding his own direction through the rumble of the oil wagons and the quiet-spoken homilies of his overwhelming father, whom he revered. “Of course,” J.D.R. Jr. would often say proudly, “I had my father’s example before me.” And despite their vast differences in background and experience, the father, who had shattered his competitors and hammered out the Standard Oil Trust, understood and loved the son as the son loved and idolized the father.

Old John D. Rockefeller, hurled up out of Bunyan-sized deposits of oil and vitality, was no stereotype villain of anybody’s morality play. When John D. Sr. got his start in 1855 as a $3.50-a-week assistant bookkeeper in the Cleveland grain and produce commission firm of Hewitt & Tuttle, he made it a point, meticulously, to set aside 10% of his earnings for selected Baptist churches and temperance societies, entering the amounts in what he called his “Ledger A.” When his son finally came to decide that he wanted to inherit not the give-and-take of the Rockefeller tradition, but only the give, John D. Rockefeller Sr. said simply: “John, I want you to do what you think is right.”

“Beloved Companion.” J.D.R. Jr. was born in Cleveland on Jan. 29, 1874, the only son to follow four daughters, one of whom died before she was a year old. Dimly, then excitedly, his earliest aspirations and fascinations latched on to his father: father presiding over a curious parade of Standard Oil tycoons; father conferring with Baptist theologians in roomy homes in Cleveland, Manhattan and Forest Hill, Ohio; father home briefly from the office to play. “He was one with us,” J.D.R. Jr. recalls, “a beloved companion. He was a very busy man in those days and could not give us much time, but we were always happy when he could be with us. Our great delight was to have him play games with us, particularly blindman’s buff, which he entered into with all the zest of a child and made the game both interesting and exciting with his quick movements and daring attacks.”

J.D.R. Jr. called those days, according to his biographer, Raymond B. Fosdick,* “the bright, cloudless days.” But this was an iron upbringing, relentlessly watched over, stamped with the Baptist zeal of the 19th century Middle West. His mother, Laura Spelman Rockefeller, daughter of a Congregational deacon, considered her children “my precious jewels—loaned me for a season to be handed back when the call comes.” Mornings in the Rockefeller household began with family prayers before breakfast, each member of the family reading the Bible in turn; if anyone was late, he or she had to pay a fine of 1¢. (John’s first job in life was to keep a record of the payments of the delinquents—see cut.) Friday night was prayer-meeting night, the whole family attending, and the children were encouraged by their mother to speak a brief prayer or testimonial of personal religious experience. Sunday was the day of rest, a cold-dinner day to keep housework down to a minimum; no studying or games were allowed, and if the children had done wrong during the week, Mrs. Rockefeller would now point out how they had sinned against God, whose forgiveness she would lead them to seek in prayer.

Price of a Drink. Without any sense of the unusual, John, not yet ten, signed a lifelong pledge to abstain from “tobacco, profanity and the drinking of any intoxicating beverages” (which he has kept). He delighted his grandmother Spelman—who used to invade Brooklyn taverns and launch into prayers for temperance—when he learned how to recite one of her favorite verses:

Five cents a glass, does any one think

That that is really the price of a drink? . . .

The price of a drink, let him decide

Who has lost his courage and pride,

And who lies a grovelling heap of clay, Not far removed from a beast today.

As he grew older, his father taught him the meaning of how to make and how to give. Day after day young John worked about the house and garden for pennies, entering the proceeds in a fine-pointed hand in a ledger like his father’s Ledger A. His account books for 1887-88, when he was 13, include such entries as mending a vase, $1 ; fixing a fountain pen, 25¢ ; sharpening pencils, 2¢; putting down rug, 10¢; and killing flies, 2¢ per fly. As soon as he had money, John was taught how to give money, usually to selected Baptist churches and temperance societies, sometimes to enhance good causes such as $1 for Bibles for Italians, $5 for survivors of the Johnstown flood, and repeated gifts of 2¢ to a “poor girl.”

Johnny Rock. In the spring of 1893 John wrote a letter to a friend of his father, asking advice about choosing a college. “Being naturally somewhat retiring (I beg you to pardon personal refences), I do not make friends readily . . . If I go to Yale in a class wholly strange to me, I will be ‘lost in the crowd,’ so to speak . . . If I go to Brown . . . I will meet many men.”

The friend noted that Yale was “attended by more men of better family,” but recommended Brown because it was smaller and because of its fine staff. So the lonely son of the richest man in the world packed his bags and went to Providence. There he worked hard at sociology and economics, got high marks and was elected to Phi Beta Kappa; much of his spare time he spent teaching the boys’ Bible class of a nearby Baptist church, or working in the college Y.M.C.A. To his surprise, John soon found that his quiet and modest ways were winning him a sincere and ready liking. He was elected president of the junior class, and after the traditionally tipsy annual junior celebration reported proudly to his mother that for the first time in history every one of the 75 juniors came back to campus “on his own feet.” His mother replied: “Tears of joy filled Dear Father’s eyes when your letter was read.”

For his senior year he was elected to manage the college football team, and a classmate wrote what happened in an essay called “The College Career of Johnny Rock”: “When the team journeyed to Boston to play Harvard, John seated his men on stools at the Thorndike Hotel lunch counter. Here the prices were lower than in the dining room with its linen-draped tables and tip-conscious waiters. Another time, when one of the players asked John for a pair of new shoelaces, he had to answer this one: ‘What did you do with the pair I gave you last week?'”

“Madame Nordica, If Possible.” On his 21st birthday J.D.R. Jr. got a gift of $21 from his father, a warm note about “your promise and . . . the confidence your life inspires.” But now for the first time in his life J.D.R. Jr. was already beginning to explore the meanings of warmer words than confidence. Awkwardly, at the age of 20, he had learned how to dance. “I made up my mind that I had to conquer my shyness. I had to get a measure of social ease,” he wrote home to his mother, who frowned on dancing. He began calling upon a Providence belle named Abby Aldrich, daughter of Rhode Island’s powerful, wealthy senior U.S. Senator, Nelson Aldrich, at her home at 110 Benevolent Street. He took Abby to college dances and football games, out on tandem rides and canoeing trips down Ten Mile River. (“She was so gay and young and so in love with everything.”) Week by week the entries piled up in the ledger: “Flowers, Abby.”

As he neared graduation in June 1897, J.D.R. Jr. and a roommate decided they wanted to give a dance of their own. At once Mrs. Rockefeller consulted her husband, suggesting that J.D.R. Jr. hold a musicale instead. “If we could have fine music . . . Madame Nordica, if possible. She was born in New England and is a good, true woman and a most delightful singer.” But Johnny Rock wanted a dance, and Johnny Rock tactfully declared his independence and got his way; then, having gained his point, he consented to call in the musicians as well. “What a magnificent program it is!” he rejoiced. Abby was there dancing waltzes, two-steps and the lancers; his father was there, resplendent in white evening gloves with the latest white stitching; his mother, who had a headache and could not come, was nonetheless gratified by the musicale—selections from Carmen, Russian airs by Wieniawski and a ballad called Love’s Sorrow.

But the warm glow of the freedom of Brown was not to last, and would never be recaptured. “The parting from old Brown was a sorrowful duty,” wrote Johnny Rock. “All the fellows wore long faces, and words were few but earnest.” Now he turned to another struggle of another kind. “It had been understood from the beginning,” he said, “that I would enter my father’s office.”

Lost: $1,000,000. Precise, prim-looking and uncertain, J.D.R. Jr. started work amid the massive rolltop desks, mustard-colored carpets and bare walls of his father’s offices at 26 Broadway, New York. His first jobs there were filling inkwells, deciding the size of the bran bins of the family stables, dispatching a large granite shaft to Cleveland for the family’s cemetery plot. Within a few years, however, he began to collect directorships of U.S. Steel, Colorado Fuel & Iron, the National City Bank, Standard Oil of New Jersey and others. Then he lost $1,000,000 on a catastrophic venture into the stock market. “Never shall I forget my shame and humiliation,” he said, “when I told Father of this situation. I had no money to meet the loss with, and there was nothing to do but to turn to him. Father listened to the story patiently. When he had heard the whole story and finished his questioning, Father simply said, ‘All right John, don’t worry. I will see you through.’ That was all. Could there have been a better way to teach me the uncertainties, the dangers and the unwisdom of speculation?”

Crowding in around J.D.R. Jr., exacerbating his public and private problems, came the pressures and problems of his time. Across the U.S. a tornado was roaring up against the robber barons, concentrating hardest and legitimately against the father, whipping fitfully at the son in cruel, sharp gusts. Day by day the muckrakers mocked J.D.R. Jr.’s 30¢ lunches, his marriage to Abby Aldrich (CROESUS CAPTURED), his regular talks to the men’s Bible class of the Fifth Avenue Baptist Church. “With his hereditary grip on a nation’s pocketbook,” sneered the Pittsburgh Press, “his talks on spiritual matters are a tax on piety.” From the pulpit of St. Bartholomew’s, the Episcopal Bishop of Michigan snorted: “The odor . . . smacks strongly of crude petroleum.”

Through the torment J.D.R. Jr. held on calmly, even when the newspapers planted reporters in his Bible class to ask him questions about camels and eyes of needles. Finally he asked Dr. W.H.P. Faunce, the pastor, whether he ought to give up his class. “Your father’s career is mainly behind him,” Dr. Faunce advised him. “Yours is before you. You will honor him most by living your own independent life, whose method may or may not be the same as his.” In this spirit J.D.R. Jr. stayed on with the Bible class, and around the same period began to resign his directorships. In 1910 he resigned his big directorship of U.S. Steel; he had decided that he wished to devote the rest of his life to the service of the Rockefeller philanthropies. The father, who had always understood his son, unhesitatingly approved and agreed.

How to Give? The kindlier world of philanthropy was then in a ferment of big men, big money and big ideas as the U.S. grappled for the first time with the problem of how to organize big giving. J.D.R. Jr. moved about, listening, learning, contributing thoughts of his own. Most of all he listened to the oracular voice of a shaggy-haired onetime Baptist clergyman named Frederick T. Gates, who had stood for years like the visible manifestation of Protestant conscience at the Rockefeller elbow. “Your fortune is rolling up! Rolling up like an avalanche,” Gates once told old John D. “You must distribute it faster than it grows. If you do not, it will crush you and your children and your children’s children.” Gates persuaded the elder Rockefeller to found the University of Chicago back in 1891 and had been urging bigger gifts ever since. “You and your children,” he wrote Rockefeller Sr., “should make final disposition of this great fortune in the form of permanent corporate philanthropies for the good of mankind.” Gates added, with his touch of Plymouth Rock: “Any other course than this is morally indefensible.”

This was just the kind of philanthropy that J.D.R. Jr. had in mind, and, with his father’s blessing, the Rockefeller philanthropies began to march toward the concept of a vast Rockefeller Foundation, with big new principles to suit. Sums of money, Gates, J.D.R. Jr. and his father proclaimed, should be spent “wholesale and not retail”; the money should be applied at “pivotal points” where the cause of a disease or social evil could be rooted out or a “germinal” idea planted. Whenever possible, money should be laid out in “massive demonstrations” so that others might copy and ultimately take over, avoiding at all costs the error of “scatteration,” the frittering away of too-small funds over too wide a range of charity. Gates and J.D.R. Jr. especially wanted the beneficiary to raise “matching funds.”

Twin Peaks. Under such fundamental forethought, the big philanthropy proliferated around the U.S. and the world. One ten-year massive demonstration by doctors and mobile dispensaries in the South, and hookworm was gone. The Rockefeller Foundation, finally chartered by New York State in 1913 (the U.S. Congress denied a federal charter, believing that no good could come out of Rockefellers), promptly exploited the success in the South and sent out task forces against hookworm all over the world. New successes taught new methods of disease control, which the foundation flung into battle against yellow fever in Ecuador, scarlet fever in Rumania, dengue fever in Guam, malaria in Nicaragua. In Manhattan a Rockefeller scientist named Dr. Wilbur Sawyer developed the world’s first effective anti-yellow-fever vaccine.

When Abraham Flexner reported that the U.S. and Canada had only 155 medical schools and only six good ones, Gates, J.D.R. Jr. and his father did not hesitate to apply the pressure to new pivotal points. Millions of dollars and years of work went into setting up new medical, nursing and public-health schools and improving existing ones, forming around the foundation’s twin peaks: the School of Hygiene and Public Health at Baltimore’s Johns Hopkins University, “the West Point of Public Health,” and the $45 million Peking Union Medical College in China (which by 1938 had been so effective in training Chinese medical students that it was almost 100% Chinese-staffed).

Into dozens of good works J.D.R. Jr. probed restlessly, pouring millions into U.S. universities and colleges and especially into Negro colleges, spurring research into oceanography and astronomy, e.g., the 200-in. telescope at Mount Palomar. broadening out from his closed-in Baptist childhood to support fervently the Protestant Interchurch World Movement, to help out increasingly on large-scale Catholic and Jewish projects.

“I would take big chances,” J.D.R. Jr. exhorted his colleagues. “If we keep at it, and follow up all possible clues, we shall eventually reach the desired goals.” Often it was not easy. One dark season more than 20 people were killed in picket-line skirmishes at the Rockefeller-controlled Colorado Fuel & Iron Co. In Manhattan angry crowds howled for J.D.R. Jr.’s blood: “Shoot him down like a dog!” J.D.R. Jr., first reacting instinctively to defend his Colorado managers, later went out to Colorado with a bright young Canadian labor-relations expert named W. L. Mackenzie King (who became his lifelong friend and longtime Prime Minister of Canada), found out about company towns, came away criticizing paternalism as “antagonistic to democracy.” Thereafter J.D.R. Jr. consistently sympathized with labor, just as consistently characterized unenlightened management as “unwise, unjust, antisocial, and hence bad business.”

“Boy Loving Sunsets.” “I remember as a boy loving sunsets,” said J.D.R. Jr. one day. “Every time I ride through the woods today the smell of the trees—particularly when a branch has just been cut and the sap is running—takes me back to my early impressions.” Today the lives of few of his countrymen have not been touched by J.D.R. Jr.’s gifts of land to the nation: Atlantic rollers loudly crashing and spuming on the rock-girt coasts of Acadia National Park in Maine; the rhododendrons of the Great Smokies, redolent and languid in the haze; Jackson Hole, sweeping green and tawny and on across shimmering lakes to the foot of the icy, steep Tetons in the fall. “It was such a beautiful place,” J.D.R. Jr. would say, “and I wanted to have it opened up so that people would see it.”

Simultaneously J.D.R. Jr. set about recreating the feel of heritage from the repaired palace at Versailles through diggings in Egypt and art museums in New York to the majestic $50 million restoration of Colonial Williamsburg.

“I Felt Like Crying.” Thus the years passed with a rare and wonderful fruitfulness. Throughout, old John D. Rockefeller looked out upon his son from his retirement with pride. “I just felt like crying like a baby,” said old John D., aged 86, when his son departed after one visit. And once J.D.R. Jr. wired word of a coming visit to his ailing father, aged 96: AM NOT COMING BECAUSE I THINK YOU NEED ME BUT BECAUSE I KNOW I NEED YOU. The next year, aged 97, the old titan died.

At the funeral the Rockefellers gathered, J.D.R. Jr. and five handsome young men wearing identical Homburg hats and an identical stamp. J.D.R. Jr. was bringing the next generation along, teaching them about thrift and the Bible—but letting them play tennis on Sundays. The brothers took their places in the philanthropies, but developed interests of their own—John III, shy like his father, is an authority on Japan; Nelson, husky, aggressive and the most public-minded, was adviser to Roosevelt on Latin America, until recently Eisenhower’s Under Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare and foreign-policy adviser; Laurance is a businessman like his grandfather; Winthrop, after quitting Yale, winning the Bronze Star off Okinawa, and earning tabloid headlines with marriage and divorce from Bobo, has settled down to run a model farm in Arkansas; David, the scholar of the family, has a Ph.D. in economics and a vice-presidency in the Chase Manhattan Bank. J.D.R. Jr.’s one daughter, Abby, is now Mrs. Jean Mauzé. “We never wanted,” the brothers say, “to walk with little steps in the big footprints of those two generations.”

“Why, Pa!” Sometimes the new brood, like the old, wonders who is ahead in the walking. In December 1946 the Rockefeller brothers thought about donating the 3,000-acre family estate near Tarrytown, N.Y. for the site of the permanent headquarters of the U.N. Nelson got on the phone to J.D.R. Jr. The soft-voiced questions came crowding in. “Is this what the United Nations prefers? Is this the ideal location?” “No.” “What is?” “New York City, of course.” Then Nelson mentioned a possible $8,000,000 or $9,000,000 property beside Manhattan’s East River. J.D.R. Jr. asked: “Why shouldn’t I give this site to the United Nations?” Nelson blurted joyously: “Why, Pa!”

Though retired now, and careful not to overdo, J.D.R. Jr. is still the head of the clan. Each day in The Eyrie he rises at 7, breakfasts at 8 (he takes no coffee, no tea), starts work on his projects at 9. Lunch is served at noon, and afterward he takes a ritualistic one-hour nap, getting into pajamas, sleeping soundly. Sometimes he works through the afternoon; sometimes he relaxes among his Oriental wood carvings and Chinese Buddhas; sometimes he takes the second Mrs. Rockefeller (his beloved Abby died in 1948; in 1951 he married Martha Baird Allen, widow of a classmate of the faraway days of Brown) for a drive in one of the family cars, or a carriage-and-pair, to savor the salty tang off the sea.

After dinner J.D.R. Jr. and his guests often gather around a baby-grand piano while Mrs. Rockefeller plays Mendelssohn or Chopin, or the J.D.R. Jr.s might drive downtown to the Criterion in Bar Harbor to a movie, e.g., The King and I. Every now and then, J.D.R. Jr. darts out on a sudden foray: one day he remarked to a visitor that he had just been out to buy 22 Bibles, “one for each of my grandchildren.”

Day of Rest. But the happiest day is Sunday, the family day, the day of rest. Unfailingly, when he is able, J.D.R. Jr. attends morning service at the Congregational Church, always attired in a black suit, always on time, always taking his place in the second pew from the front on the left-hand side of the aisle. After the service he exchanges greetings with the minister and with some of the islanders in neighborly, not seignioral fashion. Back home in The Eyrie, he gathers the available members of his family around a crackling fire of pine and birch logs. Now he banters, perhaps, with his granddaughter Sandra (one of John D. Ill’s daughters) about her life at Vassar and his life long ago at Old Brown. J.D.R. Jr. might even relate boyhood maxims: “He Who Conquers Self Is the Greatest Victor,” or “The Secret of Sensible Living Is Simplicity.” Or convey his eternal hope. “I think that in a hundred years,” he wrote at school long ago, “it is to be hoped and expected that the people of our country will be wiser and better, and therefore happier, than now.”

And when the day is over, the old man pads upstairs to bed, opens the windows and gazes out across woods, and dark sea toward the Mount Desert light glittering 22 miles away. Soon the fall will close in, and it will be time to move back south to Tarrytown; then it will be Williamsburg in the spring. (In Williamsburg he liked to sit with Abby outside the post office and watch the people walking by, or they would walk home together from the movies: “We’d look in the windows, and we’d look at the moon and the stars.”) And from the end of the day of rest to the new day of work and on to the end of his days, he hopes and intends to live his own life as he sees it. “Giving is the secret of a healthy life,” he says. “Not necessarily money, but whatever a man has of encouragement and sympathy and understanding.”

* Pronounced, with Maine contrariness, like dessert.

* For another aspect of U.S. businessmen at work for the benefit of the community, see BUSINESS.

* Whose recently published John D. Rockefeller Jr., A Portrait (Harper; $6.50), based on material gathered during 45 years of association with J.D.R. Jr. and four years of perusal of almost 80 years of Rockefeller papers, is one of the unsung classics of American biography. Fosdick is also the author of The Story of the Rockefeller Foundation (TIME, Jan. 21, 1952), which puts in sharp focus the concepts of big philanthropy.