He was pounded daily before he was two years old,
starved and cuffed and kicked all the way up to manhood, and now his
neck is so completely under the heel of hydra-headed disaster,
wickedness and want, that all he can find to do in this big and busy
world is to sit on the sidewalk and lacerate the public ear with those
dreadful discords. And yet, if death were to step up to that beggar's
side and offer him release, instant and sure, in the form of a falling
brick or a horse running amuck on the crowded sidewalk, he would cling
to the miserable shred he calls life as eagerly as though he were the
crown prince himself, with the heritage of his kingdom yet unwon.

XXXIII.

OH! TO RID THE WORLD OF SHAMS.

If you go to a florist and ask for a sweet pink root, you may get
fooled on the label, but when blooming time comes round there will be
no difficulty in deciding whether the flower you took on trust was pink
or onion. Plant a seed in the horticultural kingdom by any name you
please, there will be no mistake possible when June comes. A carrot is
bound to yield carrots, and a rose will repeat the bright wonder of its
beauty throughout the dreamy summer days, in spite of any other name
the florist may have blundered upon in the labeling. Not so with
humanity. There are souls that pass through life with the label of
lily, balm or heart's-ease tagged to them, when they are nothing better
than wild onion at heart. There are lives sown in out of the way
places, and carelessly passed by as weeds, whose blossom angels might
stoop to wear in the whiteness of their own pure breasts. Oh, to rid
the world of its shams! To sweep away the "Chadbands" with a feather
duster, as the new girl removes dust; to open the windows and shoo away
the traitors as one drives flies, to hoe out society plats as one hoes
garden beds, and thin out the flaunting weeds so that the lilies may
find room to grow; to turn the strong light of discerning truth upon
hypocrites until, as the microscope changes a globule of dew into the
abode of 10,000 wriggling abominations, so the deceitful heart shall
stand revealed for what it actually is, rather than for what it seems
to be.

XXXIV.

DRESS PARADE OF THE GREAT ALIKE

I am tired of the endless dress parade of the "Great Alike." I am
weary of walking in line, like convicts in stripes. I glory in cranks
who serve their own individuality and are in bondage to nobody. The
onward sweep