were one of a moving crowd that never began and will never end. At such
times we listen to the sound of their feet, the steady, unceasing step
by step, an endless tramp as though it were beating out the rhythm -
"Eternity, eternity, eternity."

As we pass voices call to us from the wayside, a cripple so far down
below us on the very ground offering his silent pencils; the allurement
of flowers; a hoarse newsboy with his old, old face screwed into a
thousand anxious wrinkles; a blind man, silent supplicant, twirling his
thumbs; and from the windows the call of strawberries at 15 cents a
basket. Overhead an aeroplane hums its way and receives from us the
tribute of an upward glance. We gaze upward and think how many years
before our day aeroplanes were flying overhead in the dreams of men who
passed and passed in the long procession.

Idly we glimpse faces that pass us in the procession that meets ours. We
pass them and are never the wiser for the struggle and tragedy that may
be going on behind their show of brave masks. A man clutching his last
dime and wondering whether to spend it for rolls and coffee or coffee
and rolls. A business man absorbed and a lady pondering deeply some
detail of her dress. A young girl with soft un-massaged chin hurrying to
keep a tryst with her "friend," and country folks, their feet sore on
the unaccustomed pavements, glad to be going home soon.

It is such an orderly procession and although they all seem to be
walking along forever, there is an order in their going and each is on
his way. Each one is free to go to his own place and yet no one is free.
No one is free to leave the procession once he gets into it. Once a man
is born he's done for.