PRINCIPLE 5：
Let the other person save face.
Pete Barlow was an old friend of mine. He had a dog-andponyact and spent his life traveling with circuses and vaudevilleshows. I loved to watch Pete train new dogs for his act. I noticedthat the moment a dog showed the slightest improvement， Petepatted and praised him and gave him meat and made a great todoabout it.
That’s nothing new. Animal trainers have been using thatsame technique for centuries.
Why， I wonder， don’t we use the same common sense whentrying to change people that we use when trying to change dogs？
Why don’t we use meat instead of a whip？ Why don’t we usepraise instead of condemnation？ Let us praise even the slightestimprovement. That inspires the other person to keep on improving.
In his book I Ain’t Much， Baby—But I’m All I Got， the psychologistJess Lair comments： “Praise is like sunlight to the warm humanspirit； we cannot flower and grow without it. And yet， whilemost of us are only too ready to apply to others the cold wind ofcriticism， we are somehow reluctant to give our fellow the warmsunshine of praise.”
I can look back at my own life and see where a few wordsof praise have sharply changed my entire future. Can’t you saythe same thing about your life？ History is replete with strikingillustrations of the sheer witchery praise.
For example， many years ago a boy of ten was working in afactory in Naples， He longed to be a singer， but his first teacher discouraged him. “You can’t sing，” he said. “You haven’t any voiceat all. It sounds like the wind in the shutters.”
But his mother， a poor peasant woman， put her arms abouthim and praised him and told him she knew he could sing， shecould already see an improvement， and she went barefoot inorder to save money to pay for his music lessons. That peasantmother’s praise and encouragement changed that boy’s life. Hisname was Enrico Caruso， and he became the greatest and mostfamous opera singer of his age.
In the early nineteenth century， a young man in Londonaspired to be a writer. But everything seemed to be against him.
He had never been able to attend school more than four years.
His father had been flung in jail because he couldn’t pay his debts，and this young man often knew the pangs of hunger. Finally， hegot a job pasting labels on bottles of blacking in a rat-infestedwarehouse， and he slept at night in a dismal attic room with twoother boys—guttersnipes from the slums of London. He had solittle confidence in his ability to write that he sneaked out andmailed his first manu in the dead of night so nobody wouldlaugh at him. Story after story was refused. Finally the great daycame when one was accepted. True， he wasn’t paid a shillingfor it， but one editor had praised him. One editor had givenhim recognition. He was so thrilled that he wandered aimlesslyaround the streets with tears rolling down his cheeks.
The praise， the recognition， that he received through gettingone story in print， changed his whole life， for if it hadn’t been forthat encouragement， he might have spent his entire life workingin rat-infested factories. You may have heard of that boy. Hisname was Charles Dickens.