soprano sings. The orator is at his best. Band after band takes up
its air. The march begins again. Chicago is gratified. The great day
ends with a banquet to the prominent citizens by the political leader.

The slander that republics and communities are ungrateful is hurled in
the faces of the base caitiffs who have given it currency.

Behind all the gratulations of conventionality--in the unprinted,
unreported, unconventional world--the devotion of Esther Lockwin is
universally remarked upon.

Learned editors, noting this phase of the matter, discuss the
mausoleums of Asia erected by loving relicts and score a point in
journalism.

"The widow of the late Hon. David Lockwin, M. C., will soon sail for
Europe," says the society paper.

But she will do no such thing. She will spend her nights and mornings
lamenting her widowhood. She will be present every day to see that the
work goes forward on the monument.

"I might die," she says, moodily.

There will be no cessation of labor at the ascending column. It is not
in the order of things here that a committee should go to Springfield
to urge an unwilling public conclusion of a grateful private beginning.
Money pours like water. The memorial rises. It becomes a city lion.
It is worth going to see.