er. The glory of the terrestrial was one,
and the glory of the celestial was another. Then, as the glory of sun
banished the lesser glory of moon and stars, Vanamee, from his mountain
top, beholding the eternal green life of the growing Wheat, bursting its
bonds, and in his heart exulting in his triumph over the grave, flung
out his arms with a mighty shout:

"Oh, Death, where is thy sting? Oh, Grave, where is thy victory?"

CHAPTER IV

Presley's Socialistic poem, "The Toilers," had an enormous success. The
editor of the Sunday supplement of the San Francisco paper to which
it was sent, printed it in Gothic type, with a scare-head title so
decorative as to be almost illegible, and furthermore caused the poem to
be illustrated by one of the paper's staff artists in a most impressive
fashion. The whole affair occupied an entire page. Thus advertised, the
poem attracted attention. It was promptly copied in New York, Boston,
and Chicago papers. It was discussed, attacked, defended, eulogised,
ridiculed. It was praised with the most fulsome adulation; assailed with
the most violent condemnation. Editorials were written upon it. Special
articles, in literary pamphlets, dissected its rhetoric and prosody.
The phrases were quoted,--were used as texts for revolutionary sermons,
reactionary speeches. It was parodied; it was distorted so as to read as
an advertisement for patented cereals and infants' foods. Finally,
the editor of an enterprising monthly magazine reprinted the poem,
supplementing it by a photograph and biography of Presley himself.

Presley was stunned, bewildered. He began to wonder at himself. Was
he actually the "greatest American poet since Bryant"? He had had no
thought of fame while composing "The Toilers." He had only been moved
to his heart's foundations,--thoroughly in earnest, seeing clearly,--and
had addressed himself to the poem's composition in a happy moment when
words came easily to him, and the elaboration of fine sentences was not
difficult. Was it thus fame was achieved? For a while he was tempted
to cross the continent and go to New York and there come unto his own,
enjoying the triumph that awaited him. But soon he denied himself this
cheap reward. Now he was too much in earnest. He wanted to help his
People, the community in which he lived--the little world of the San
Joaquin, at grapples with the Railroad. The struggle had found its poet.
He told himself that his place was here. On