Enter the Hero R.U.E.
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 Autobiography1 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's2 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