It is true that long before the peroration
the windows were empty and the boys were eating stolen, unripe fruit in
the orchards of the listeners. The thieves were sure of an alibi.

The Hon. Mr. Halloway reached a logical conclusion which convinced even
the combative and unwilling that the present depends largely upon the
past, while the future will be determined, for the most part, by the
conditions of the present. "The future," he cried, leaning forward with
an expression of solemn warning, "The future is in our own hands, ladies
and gentlemen of the city of Plattville. Is it not so? We will find it
so. Turn it over in your minds." He leaned backward and folded his hands
benevolently on his stomach and said in a searching whisper; "Ponder
it." He waited for them to ponder it, and little Mr. Swanter, the
druggist and bookseller, who prided himself on his politeness and who
was seated directly in front, scratched his head and knit his brows
to show that he was pondering it. The stillness was intense; the fans
ceased to beat; Mr. Snoddy could be heard breathing dangerously. Mr.
Swanter was considering the advisability of drawing a pencil from his
pocket and figuring on it upon his cuff, when suddenly, with the energy
of a whirlwind, the lecturer threw out his arms to their fullest extent
and roared: "It is a _fact_! It is carven on stone in the gloomy caverns
of TIME. It is writ in FIRE on the imperishable walls of Fate!"

After the outburst, his voice sank with startling rapidity to a tone of
honeyed confidence, and he wagged an inviting forefinger at Mr.
Snoddy, who opened his mouth. "Shall we take an example? Not from the
marvellous, my friends; let us seek an illustration from the ordinary.
Is that not better? One familiar to the humblest of us. One we can all
comprehend. One from our every-day life. One which will interest even
the young. Yes. The common house-fly. On a window-sill we place a bit
of fly-paper, and contiguous to it, a flower upon which the happy
insect likes to feed and rest. The little fly approaches. See, he hovers
between the two. One is a fatal trap, an ambuscade, and the other a
safe harbor and an innocuous haven. But mystery allures him. He poises,
undecided. That is the present. That, my friends, is the Present! What
will he do? WHAT will he do? What will he DO? Memories of the past
are whispering to him: 'Choose the flower. Light on the posy.' Here we
clearly see the influence of the past up