ON GETTING ON IN THE WORLD.

Not exactly the sort of thing for an idle fellow to think about, is
it? But outsiders, you know, often see most of the game; and sitting
in my arbor by the wayside, smoking my hookah of contentment and
eating the sweet lotus-leaves of indolence, I can look out musingly
upon the whirling throng that rolls and tumbles past me on the great
high-road of life.

Never-ending is the wild procession. Day and night you can hear the
quick tramp of the myriad feet--some running, some walking, some
halting and lame; but all hastening, all eager in the feverish race,
all straining life and limb and heart and soul to reach the
ever-receding horizon of success.

Mark them as they surge along--men and women, old and young, gentle
and simple, fair and foul, rich and poor, merry and sad--all hurrying,
bustling, scrambling. The strong pushing aside the weak, the cunning
creeping past the foolish; those behind elbowing those before; those
in front kicking, as they run, at those behind. Look close and see
the flitting show. Here is an old man panting for breath, and there a
timid maiden driven by a hard and sharp-faced matron; here is a
studious youth, reading "How to Get On in the World" and letting
everybody pass him as he stumbles along with his eyes on his book;
here is a bored-looking man, with a fashionably dressed woman jogging
his elbow; here a boy gazing wistfully back at the sunny village that
he never again will see; here, with a firm and easy step, strides a
broad-shouldered man; and here, with stealthy tread, a thin-faced,
stooping fellow dodges and shuffles upon his way; here, with gaze