are in our hurly-burly and endless strife for social, commercial,
and political advantages. Life is as settled and certain for them
as it is unsettled and uncertain for us. No problems confront
them; the everlasting query, "What shall we do to-morrow?" is
never asked; plans for the coming summer do not disturb them; the
seashore is far off; Paris and Monte Carlo are but places, vague
and indistinct, the fairy tales of travellers; their city is the
four walls of their home; their world the one long, silent, street
of the village; their end the little graveyard beyond; it is all
planned out, foreseen, and arranged.

Such a life is not without its charms, and it is small wonder that
in all ages men of intellect have sought in some form of
communistic association relief from the pressure of strenuous
individualism. We may smile with condescension upon the busy
sisters in their caps and gingham gowns, but, who knows, theirs
may be the better lot.

Life with us is a good deal of an automobile race,--a lot of dust,
dirt, and noise; explosions, accidents, and delays; something
wrong most of the time; now a burst of headlong speed, then a jolt
and sudden stop; or a creeping pace with disordered mechanism; no
time to think of much except the machine; less time to see
anything except the road immediately ahead; strife to pass others;
reckless indifference to life and limb; one long, mad contest for
success and notoriety, ending for the most part in some sort of
disaster,--possibly a sea of flame.

If we possessed any sense of grim, sardonic humor, we would
appreciate how ridiculous is the life we lead, how utterly absurd