doves walked to the very
edge and filled their crops with the pure white sand. Then this, the
best great work of any race of any age, comes over the spirits of
worshipful men like heavenly benedictions of good-will and peace.

Sometimes as they sat in some quiet place alone saying nothing but
thinking joy, the music of holy melodies came floating across the
waters of the basin and re-echoed from the heaving lake to the
Administration dome. They were sitting at the feet of that human genius
which God had hallowed for the sake of those who revere His holy name.

They were everywhere thrilled with the supremely gifted achievements of
their fellow men, inspired by the living canvass from every clime, and
amazed to know that the lumps of Parian stone could be made to speak the
heroism of the world.

_CHAPTER XVIII_

UNCLE IN THE LOCK-UP

Our family felt that they could remain in the grounds forever and never
be done seeing; but the time was drawing near when they must return
home. Uncle decided that this Saturday must be their last day at the
Fair. Surely they had seen enough, even if there was so much more not
yet seen. They had seen notable people all the way from the Infanta of
Spain to Faraway Moses, of Egypt. But they were all the same to Uncle.
He had heard all kinds of music, from the Spanish band to the Samoan
tom-tom. "Some of the music," he said, "was so peaceful like, but the
rest was not half so nice as the growin' pigs rubbin' against splinters
in the sty back of the barnyard." He had surely been all over, and there
was nothing more of a startling nature to see. He had watched them check
babies at the children's building as if they were poodles or handbags,
and he had been over to the Irish village and seen the people kissing
the "Blarney Stone." On a card tacked near by he read:

This is the stone that whoever kisses
He never misses to
Grow eloquent.
A clever spouter
He'll turn out an orator
In Parliament.

Uncle had no ambition that way, and so he let the rest do all the
kissing.

He had completed his sight-seeing in the city by taking a Turkish bath,
and he considered himself now ready to "pull up stakes" and return to
the farm.

"I've made hay in July, and punched it back into the loft," said Uncle;
"I've harvested in August, and drunk out of the branch; I've cut
hoop-poles in the swamp, and done lots of other hot things, but fer real
sultuy weather nothing is ekal to the T