"
"In the Southern States of America," observed the Philosopher,
sticking to his guns, "they run excursion trains to lynching
exhibitions. The bull-fight is spreading to France, and English
newspapers are advocating the reintroduction of bear-baiting and
cock-fighting. Are we not moving in a circle?"
"The road winds, as I have allowed," returned the Minor Poet; "the
gradient is somewhat steep. Just now, maybe, we are traversing a
backward curve. I gain my faith by pausing now and then to look
behind. I see the weary way with many a downward sweep. But we are
climbing, my friend, we are climbing."
"But to such a very dismal goal, according to your theory," grumbled
the Old Maid. "I should hate to feel myself an insect in a hive, my
little round of duties apportioned to me, my every action regulated
by a fixed law, my place assigned to me, my very food and drink, I
suppose, apportioned to me. Do think of something more cheerful."
The Minor Poet laughed. "My dear lady," he replied, "it is too
late. The thing is already done. The hive already covers us, the
cells are in building.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105