ivilisation

I

Dust

"I see the ships," said The Eavesdropper, as he stole round the world to
me, "on a dozen sides of the world. I hear them fighting with the sea."

"And what do you see on the ships?" I said.

"Figures of men and women--thousands of figures of men and women."

"And what are they doing?"

"They are walking fiercely," he said,--"some of them,--walking fiercely
up and down the decks before the sea."

"Why?" said I.

"Because they cannot stand still and look at it. Others are reading in
chairs because they cannot sit still and look at it."

"And there are some," said The Eavesdropper, "with roofs of boards above
their heads (to protect them from Wonder)--down in the hold--playing
cards."

There was silence.

* * * * *

"What are you seeing now?" I said.

"Trains," he said--"a globe full of trains. They are on a dozen sides of it.
They are clinging to the crusts of it--mountains--rivers--prairies--some
in the light and some in the dark--creeping through space."

"And what do you see in the trains?"

"Miles of faces."

"And the faces?"

"They are pushing on the trains."

* * * * *

"What are you seeing now?" I said.

"Cities," he said--"streets of cities--miles of streets of cities."

"And what do you see in the streets of cities?"

"Men, women, and smoke."

"And what are the men and women doing?"

"Hurrying," said he.

"Where?" said I.

"God knows."

II

Dust

The population of the civilised world to-day may be divided into two
classes,--millionaires and those who would like to be millionaires. The
rest are artists, poets, tramps, and babies--and do not count. Poets and
artists do not count until after they are dead. Tramps are put in
prison. Babies are expected to get over it. A few more summers, a few
more winters--with short skirts or with down on their chins--they shall
be seen burrowing with the rest of us.

One almost wonders sometimes, why it is that the sun keeps on year after
year and day after day turning the globe around and around, heating it
and lighting it and keeping things growing on it, when after all, when
all is said and done (crowded with wonder and with things to live with,
as it is), it is a comparatively empty globe. No one seems to be using
it very much, or paying very much attention to it, or getting very much
out of it. There are never more than a very few men on it at a