When Dr. Robert Collyer, the widely known and highly honored Unitarian minister, became an octogenarian, two years ago, he gave out a recipe for living long and being happy. He has had experience. He practises what he preaches. He knows all about the twists and the turns, the ups and the downs of the long journey from the small blacksmith's shop in Shoemakertown, Pennsylvania, to the great pulpit of Unity Church, Chicago, and later to that of the Church of the Messiah, New York City. His prescription for a long and beautiful life is as simple and terse as the sermons which have made him famous. It is within the reach of everybody. No druggist can furnish a substi tute for it. It cures nine times out of ten. It is this: "Cultivate a good temper. Live a natural life. Eat moderately of the food that agrees with you. Keep on the sunny side of the street."

To those who are growing old, here are some suggestions in practical wisdom. Be patient. Do not rush into extremes. Adopt a wholesome, and a well-balanced dietary. To live naturally is to keep the mind clear and the heart clean, and to take reasonable exercise in the open air. An old writer of much good sense has said: "When men lived in houses of reed, they had constitutions of oak; when they lived in houses of oak, they had constitutions of reeds." This illustrates how injury may come to the body through an insufficient supply of oxygen, which used to be called "vital air."

Dr. Collyer is a noticeable example of the effect of rational living. He is ever on the sunny side of the street. He carries sunshine wherever he goes. He knows nothing about doldrums. He is a strong character in cheerfulness, amiability, and tranquility. His message to the aged is one that always rejuvenates.

Miss Louisa May Alcott once said that a part of religion was to look well after the cheerfulness of life and let the dismals shift for them selves. This sentiment suggests some facts in the life of Miss Fannie Dean of Glenwood, Iowa. So far as money goes, she is a child of great misfortune; but in cheerfulness, and in loving service to those in need, she is a millionaire. In all the walks of her humble life she keeps on the sunny side of the street. In 1904 she was seventy-nine years old and was earning two dollars a week at the wash tub, her strength not permitting her to earn more. Out of this pittance Miss Dean assists in educating two girls in India, and regularly gives ten dollars a year to a school for blind negro children in the South. In Christian zeal, in hope and good cheer, she is not surpassed by any woman, old or young, in Glenwood.

Some people have all the music of their lives set in the minor key. They take to the shadowed side of the street. Their imagination, when wrongly exercised, is one of the worst of foes, particularly to elderly people. Many persons live in perpetual discomfort because their minds are not employed in useful ways. This sort of thinking is carried so far that they imagine that the world is against them. However hard one's lot may seem to be, there is room for hope and an opportunity for some kind of worthy achievement.

At the present time there lives in Casey, Illinois, a sweet-tempered invalid, Lizzie Johnson. For many years she has not been released from pain, and so helpless is she that her head scarcely ever leaves her pillow. Taking human nature as we generally find it there is occasion enough for her to do much grumbling because of her hard condition. But no words of discomfort come from her lips. More than that, she is as industrious as she is resigned and cheerful. During the past fourteen years, by making simple articles of various designs, she has gathered in some eight thousand dollars, which has been wholly devoted to mission purposes.

The value of a loving temperament and a bright countenance is shown by the testimony of an eminent Chicago physician who, for obvious reasons, withholds his name from the public. He once had a patient in the hospital whose fits of depression undid the work of most of the medicine prescribed. For some time he could not understand it. The nurse was homely in her personality, was not sweet-voiced, and perhaps was not quite as sympathetic and tender as a nurse ought to be, but she was skilled in her profession and was a devoted worker among the sick. Once she was called away from the city by the death of her mother, and a substitute was provided. The new nurse was somewhat inexperienced, was not as regular nor as skilful in giving medicine as her predecessor, but she had a gracious manner, spoke in a tone almost bewitching, her countenance was always winsome, and her mirth impressible.

The patient began to mend rapidly, and the physician gave his remedies credit for the delightful change in the man's condition. But in the course of two or three weeks the old nurse returned and took her place in the sick-room. It was not long before the patient had a relapse. His fits of gloom returned, it appeared that medicine had lost its power. One day the sick man said to the physician: "Doctor, would you mind sending back Doris? I don't believe you can help me, anyhow, but I feel better when Doris is here; she is so jolly." Simply to humor him, the favorite nurse of the physician was dismissed, and Doris was recalled. A rapid change for the better took place in the patient, and in two months he was able to return home.

It is said that the nurse of smiling face, of blithe spirit, is fairly sharing honors with the distinguished physicians of Europe.

It pays to keep on the sunny side of the street. That light-hearted octogenarian, Lord Kelvin, who does as much brain work as any philosopher of his age on earth, recently addressed the students of St. George's Hospital, London. He told them that they must not expect patients to be healed by such things as drugs and splints alone. He made it very plain to the students that doctors ought to make use of cheerfulness and kindness; and last, but by no means least, spiritual consolation.

When Miss Edith Franklin Wyatt, author of Every One His Own Way, was at Bryn Mawr College from 1891 to 1893 as a student, she was called "the girl in the cheering-up business." She was ever on the sunny side of the street. Her life was full of light. She taught the beneficence of laughter. The rejuvenating force of cheerfulness was exemplified in her everyday life. The girls who were homesick, and discouraged; "girls who were behind in their studies, and tired students, went to her for a bit of sunshine and encouragement and they always found it." In Miss Wyatt the faculty of cheerfulness and wholesome humor, is a divine gift, and it is just as much her business to spread sunshine as it is to earn a living by her well-trained mind. She is a born maker of happiness.

If ever a man walked on the sunny side of the street it was Oliver Wendell Holmes. He al ways walked in the light. He was one of the great "joy-makers" in our literature. The doctor had a wonderfully joyous, sanguine vitality. His humor was exceptional and extraordinary. With his inherent goodness and beauty of character was an exuberance of humor; and when people smiled or laughed at what he said, the smile or laughter came from the very soul of the reader.

Contentment with one's lot and a cheerful view of life and all its demands, are important factors in promoting longevity. Some philosopher has said that there is such a thing as "laughing wrinkles away."

Some time ago a railway train made a stop at the quiet village of Rexville, New York. A passenger put his head out of the window and began to chat with several octogenarians who were standing in front of the station house. He said to one of them:

"I should think you, would have a pretty lonesome time living here."

"What," was the answer, "lonesome, and three trains a day?"

This gray-haired veteran understood the philosophy of life. He had found a sunny side to eighty years. Wholesome living with contentment is great gain. This is the way to live if we want to live long and be joyous. Any other course of personal habits will bring us into judgment.

The late Senator Hoar of Massachusetts, was a grand old man. He was a great statesman, a profound scholar, a splendid Christian gentleman. Once, in speaking of his every day life, he made the characteristic remark: "I have never got over being a boy. It does not seem likely that I ever shall." He was right. So far as blithesomeness is concerned, this grand old man of the United States Senate never got over being a boy. His sweet, infectious smile was not to be forgotten by those who met him. Even in the hot debate in the Senate, he would smile benignly upon his antagonist no matter how bitter or angry that antagonist might be, and would seem to say: "I smile on that man because I want to encourage him to make out as strong a case as possible. I have a stronger one myself, and can smile even while he is doing his best to confound me."

The venerable Daniel Kimball Pearsons, M.D. of Chicago, is distinguished for his philanthropy. He celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday in April, 1905, by giving $150,000 to five colleges in the mountain regions of the Southern States. He keeps on the sunny side of the street. His life is full of kindness and joy. When he gives $25,000 or $100,000 to a worthy institution he smiles; in fact he always laughs when he separates himself from his money. His great joy in his old age is giving. This is his hobby, and he rides it remarkably well. He gives, and laughs, and keeps in good health.

Besides a solid Christian faith, some useful employment, and a stomach that is never abused, there is nothing in longevity that pays so well as cheerfulness. It is a hobby that every man and woman ought to ride. It has been called the bright weather of the heart. It is a wonderful tonic for old age.