which
should, which must, remain ours and our children's. "_Socialist_!"
shrieks History.

The youth of Abingdon speak glibly of Shepherd Kings, Constitution of
Lycurgus, Thermopylae, Consul Duilius, or the Licinian Laws; the more
advanced are even as far down as Elizabeth. For the rich and unmatched
history of their own land, they have but a shallow patter of that; no
guess at its high meaning, no hint of a possible destiny apart from glory
and greed and war, a future and opportunity "too high for hate, too great
for rivalry." The history of America is the story of the pioneer and the
story of the immigrant. The students are taught nothing of the one or
the other--except for the case of certain immigrant pioneers, enskied
and sainted, who never left the hearing of the sea; a sturdy and
stout-hearted folk enough, but something press-agented.

Outside of school the student hears no mention of living immigrant or
pioneer save in terms of gibe and sneer and taunt. The color and high
romance of his own township is a thing undreamed of, as vague and
shapeless as the foundations of Enoch, the city of Cain. And for his own
farmstead, though for the first time on earth a man made here a home;
though valor blazed the path; though he laid the foundation of that house
in hope and in love set up the gates of it, none knows the name of that
man or of his bolder mate. There are no traditions--and no ballads.

A seven-mile stretch of the river follows the outlines of a sickle, or,
if you are not familiar with sickles, of a handmade figure five. Abingdon
lies at the sickle point, prosperous Vesper at the end of the handle;
Vesper, the county seat, abode of lawyers and doctors--some bankers, too.
Home also of retired business men, of retired farmers; home of old
families, hereditary county officials, legislators.

Overarched with maples, the old road parallels the river bend, a mile
away. The broad and fertile bottom land within the loop of this figure
five is divided into three great farms--"gentlemen's estates." The
gentlemen are absentees all.

A most desirable neighborhood; the only traces of democracy on the river
road are the schoolhouse and the cemetery. Malvern and Brookfield were
owned respectively by two generals, gallant soldiers of the Civil War,
successful lawyers, since, of New York City. Stately, high-columned
Colonial houses, far back from the road; the clustered tenant houses, the
vast barns, long red tobacco sheds