re the
chasers and the chased; the hunter and the hunted; we are spending and
the spent; we are borrowed and lent--and what is the good of it all? I
have always wanted to be an Oriental, dreaming in the shade of a palm
tree, letting the sun and the wind ripen my fruits and my brain, while
I sat--with never a care--king of the earth--and the air--O, take it
from me, young fellow, there are wonderful delights in contemplation,
delights of which we are as ignorant as the color blind are of the
changing hues of the Autumn woods, or the deaf man is of music. We are
deaf, blind and dumb about the things of the soul! We think activity
is the only form of growth."

The young doctor, whose handsome face had grown pale, watched him with
a sort of fascination. The words seemed to roll from his lips without
the slightest effort, and apparently without causing his heart one
emotion. If the young doctor had not known him so well, he would have
thought him entirely unconcerned:

"We are cursed, you and I, and all of us," he resumed, with too much
activity. We are obscessed with a passion for material achievement! We
are hand-worshippers--leg-worshippers--speed-worshippers. We mistake
activity for progress."

"But it is progress," burst from the young man, "activity does bring
achievement--development."

The door of the office opened suddenly, and two young fellows rushed
in.

"Are you coming to the lacrosse meeting, Doc,--we are going to
organize, and we want you for President again, of course."

Then, seeing the city doctor, whom they recognized,--

"Excuse the interruption, but we can't get on without Dr. Clay, he's
the whole works of the lacrosse team."

"I will not be able to go over tonight, boys," said the Doctor, "but
you'll get on all right. You are getting to work pretty early--this is
the first fine day."

When the lacrosse boys had gone, Dr. Clay finished his argument:

"These fellows prove what I was saying. When I came here six years
ago, there was not even a baseball team in the place--the young
fellows gathered on street corners in summer, loafing and
idling, revelling in crazy, foolish degrading stories--absolute
degenerations--now see them--on the tail of a blizzard, they dig out
their lacrosse sticks and start the game on the second fine day.
From the time the hockey is over now, until hockey time again--these
fellows talk and dream lacrosse, and a decenter, cleaner lot of lads
you won't find anywhere.