From the Evening Star, June 18, 1913. By Walt Mason.
The old world is wagging along to the bragging of those who have won in the battle of life; their vaunting and crowing we hear as we’re going to do what we can in the flurry and strife! But Midas and Croesus have all gone to pieces and millions of winners have crumbled to dust; the old world, still wagging, has heard legions bragging whose names are forgotten, whose riches are rust. The old world is flying along to the sighing of those who have troubles too heavy to bear; and loud sounds the wailing of sick souls and ailing, the chorus of sorrow, the dirge of despair. But millions are sleeping who one time were weeping and cursing their gods in the caverns of gloom; the old world, still flying, has heard so much sighing—has heard so much prating of dolor and doom! The old world is rumbling along to the grumbling of those who can tell how it might be improved; the kicking and carping that way have been harping since first in the dawn of the ages it moved. But millions are planted who once gallivanted around on the surface with croakings and kicks; the old world, still rumbling, has seen them go tumbling, has heard the small splashes they made in the Styx.
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