It perhaps might be said--if any one dared--that the most worthless literature of the world has been that which has been written by the men of one nation concerning the men of another.

When the prophet, a complacent fat man, Arrived at the mountain-top He cried: "Woe to my knowledge! I intended to see good white lands And bad black lands— But the scene is grey.

When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: "Why?" He replied: "Because no one admired me.

Let me into the darkness again.

It was surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment.

Such an assemblage of the spraddle-legged men of the middle class, whose hands were bent and shoulders stooped from delving and constructing, had never appeared to an Asbury Park summer crowd, and the latter was vaguely amused.

Doubtless there are other roads.