WHEN he had reached the Governor's office, and had established his
mother's picture on the smooth glass-covered mahogany top of his desk,
Calvin Coolidge supposed he had climbed to the summit of his possible
political preferment. He declared in his Autobiography ¹ that at that time he
would have been quite content to close his political career as Governor of
Massachusetts. He realized what a long way from Plymouth it was to
Beacon Hill. The calf that started to Boston when Calvin went to Ludlow
came quicker, but Calvin stayed longer. He had changed little since he
rode down the mountain that raw September morning with his father and
the calf. Essentially he had the same spirit; attacked life with the same grip
as a man that he used as a boy, while he struggled with that arm of destiny
known as environment.

Luck sometimes gave him a lift. But despite his luck his character was his
destiny. It may be well here and now to take a reporter's ² estimate who saw
Coolidge in that gubernatorial day and wrote for that day. Most happily
the reporter is not describing Governor Coolidge in a heroic mood, but as
he was in his daily walks in Boston. Read this:

"It was as good as a show to watch him cross Tremont Street. The traffic
was thick, of course, and sometimes Coolidge came to the street before the
traffic cop was out in the morning. He always stopped, glanced, birdlike, up
and down the street, measured the distance to the nearest car, and if he
thought he could make it, he started across. If that car brushed his coat tails,
he would not run. He had calculated the distance and the time. He had
faith in his calculation. And evidently he considered it the driver's fault if

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