A People Always Ends By Resembling Its

Politicians. Little Tin Gods On Wheels.

Ah! What Avails The Classic Bent And What The Cultured Word, Against The Undoctored Incident That Actually Occurred? And What Is Art Whereto We Press Through Paint And Prose And Rhyme- When Nature In Her Nakedness Defeats Us Every Time?

Oh East Is East And West Is West And Never The Twain Shall Meet.

It Thrilled Through Him When He First Felt The Keel Answer To His Hand On The Spokes And Slide Over The Long Hollows As The Foresail Scythed Back And Forth Against The Blue Sky.

As I Pass Through My Incarnations In Every Age And Race, I Make My Proper Prostrations To The Gods Of The Market-place. Peering Through Reverent Fingers I Watch Them Flourish And Fall, And The Gods Of The Copybook Headings, I Notice, Outlast Them All.