I met him first in 1936. I rushed into his ugly little shop to have the heels of my shoes repaired. I waited when he did it. He greeted me with a cheerful smile. "You're new in this neighborbood, aren't you?" I said I was. I had moved into a house at the end of the street only a week before. "This is a fine neighborhood," he said. "You'll be happy here." He looked at the leather covering the heel sadly. It was worn through because I had failed to have the repair done a month before. I grew impatient, for I was rushing to meet a friend. "Please hurry," I begged. He looked at me over his spectacles. "Now, lady, we won't be long. I want to do a good job. You see, I have a tradition to live up to." A tradition? In this ugly little shop that was no different from so many other shoe repair shops on the side streets of New York? He must have felt my surprise, for he smiled as he went on. "Yes, lady, I _ a tradition. My father and my grandfather were shoemakers in Italy, and they were the best. My father always told me, 'Son, do the best job on every shoe that comes into the shop, and be proud of your fine work. Do that always, and you'll have both happiness and money enough to live on.'" As he handed me the finished shoes, he said: "These will last a long time. I've used good leather." I left in a hurry. But I had a warm and grateful feeling. On my way home I passed the little shop again. There he was, still working. He saw me, and to my surprise he waved and smiled. This was the beginning of our friendship. It was a friendship that came to mean more and more to me as time passed. Every day I passed his shop, we waved to each other in friendly greeting. At first I went in only when I had repair work to be done. Then I found myself going in every few days just to talk with him. He was the happiest man I've ever known. Often, as he stood in his shopwindow, working at a pair of shoes, he sang in a high, clear Italian voice. The Italians in our neighborhood called him la luce alla finestra--"the light in the window". One day I was disappointed and angry because of poor jobs some painters had done for me. I went into his shop for comfort. He let me go on talking angrily about the poor work and carelessness of present-day workmen. "They had no pride in their work," I said. "They just wanted to collect their money for doing nothing." He agreed. "There's a lot of that kind around, but maybe we should not blame them. Maybe their fathers had no pride in their work. That's hard on a boy. It keeps him from learning something important." He waited a minute and said "Every man or woman who hasn't inherited a prideful tradition must start building one." "In this country, our freedom lets each of us make his own contribution. We must make it a good contribution. No matter what sort of work a man does, if he gives it his best each day, he's starting a tradition for his children to live up to. And he is making lots of happiness for himself." I went to Europe for a few months. When I returned, there was no "light in the window". The door was closed. There was a little sign: "Call for shoes at shop next door." I learned the old man had suddenly got sick and died two weeks before I went away with a heavy heart. I would miss him. But he had left me something--an important piece of wisdom I shall always remember: "If you inherited a prideful tradition, you must carry it on; if you haven't, start building one now." Why was the shoemaker called "the light in the window" by his neighbors?
Because he always worked late at night. Because he always put a light in the window. Because he was always guiding the others. Because he was always happy and cheerful.
Question: I met him first in 1936. I rushed into his ugly little shop to have the heels of my shoes repaired. I waited when he did it. He greeted me with a cheerful smile. "You're new in this neighborbood, aren't you?" I said I was. I had moved into a house at the end of the street only a week before. "This is a fine neighborhood," he said. "You'll be happy here." He looked at the leather covering the heel sadly. It was worn through because I had failed to have the repair done a month before. I grew impatient, for I was rushing to meet a friend. "Please hurry," I begged. He looked at me over his spectacles. "Now, lady, we won't be long. I want to do a good job. You see, I have a tradition to live up to." A tradition? In this ugly little shop that was no different from so many other shoe repair shops on the side streets of New York? He must have felt my surprise, for he smiled as he went on. "Yes, lady, I _ a tradition. My father and my grandfather were shoemakers in Italy, and they were the best. My father always told me, 'Son, do the best job on every shoe that comes into the shop, and be proud of your fine work. Do that always, and you'll have both happiness and money enough to live on.'" As he handed me the finished shoes, he said: "These will last a long time. I've used good leather." I left in a hurry. But I had a warm and grateful feeling. On my way home I passed the little shop again. There he was, still working. He saw me, and to my surprise he waved and smiled. This was the beginning of our friendship. It was a friendship that came to mean more and more to me as time passed. Every day I passed his shop, we waved to each other in friendly greeting. At first I went in only when I had repair work to be done. Then I found myself going in every few days just to talk with him. He was the happiest man I've ever known. Often, as he stood in his shopwindow, working at a pair of shoes, he sang in a high, clear Italian voice. The Italians in our neighborhood called him la luce alla finestra--"the light in the window". One day I was disappointed and angry because of poor jobs some painters had done for me. I went into his shop for comfort. He let me go on talking angrily about the poor work and carelessness of present-day workmen. "They had no pride in their work," I said. "They just wanted to collect their money for doing nothing." He agreed. "There's a lot of that kind around, but maybe we should not blame them. Maybe their fathers had no pride in their work. That's hard on a boy. It keeps him from learning something important." He waited a minute and said "Every man or woman who hasn't inherited a prideful tradition must start building one." "In this country, our freedom lets each of us make his own contribution. We must make it a good contribution. No matter what sort of work a man does, if he gives it his best each day, he's starting a tradition for his children to live up to. And he is making lots of happiness for himself." I went to Europe for a few months. When I returned, there was no "light in the window". The door was closed. There was a little sign: "Call for shoes at shop next door." I learned the old man had suddenly got sick and died two weeks before I went away with a heavy heart. I would miss him. But he had left me something--an important piece of wisdom I shall always remember: "If you inherited a prideful tradition, you must carry it on; if you haven't, start building one now." Why was the shoemaker called "the light in the window" by his neighbors?
A. Because he always worked late at night.
B. Because he always put a light in the window.
C. Because he was always guiding the others.
D. Because he was always happy and cheerful.
Answer: