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Sisters Of The Golden Circle
The Rubberneck Auto was about ready to start. The merry top-riders had been assigned
to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor. The sidewalk was blockaded with sightseers
who had gathered to stare at sightseers, justifying the natural law that every creature on
earth is preyed upon by some other creature.
The megaphone man raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the great automobile
began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee drinker. The top-riders nervously
clung to the seats; the old lady from Valparaiso, Indiana, shrieked to be put ashore. But,
before a wheel turns, listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone, which shall point
out to you an object of interest on life's sightseeing tour.
Swift and comprehensive is the recognition of white man for white man in African wilds;
instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between mother and babe; unhesitatingly do
master and dog commune across the slight gulf between animal and man; immeasurably
quick and sapient are the brief messages between one and one's beloved. But all these
instances set forth only slow and groping interchange of sympathy and thought beside
one other instance which the Rubberneck coach shall disclose. You shall learn (if you
have not learned already) what two beings of all earth's living inhabitants most quickly
look into each other's hearts and souls when they meet face to face.
The gong whirred, and the Glaring-at-Gotham car moved majestically upon its instructive
On the highest, rear seat was James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri, and his Bride.
Capitalise it, friend typo—that last word—word of words in the epiphany of life and love.
The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the
overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride.
Holy is the wife; revered the mother; galliptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the
certified check among the wedding presents that the gods send in when man is married to
The car glided up the Golden Way. On the bridge of the great cruiser the captain stood,
trumpeting the sights of the big city to his passengers. Wide-mouthed and open-eared,
they heard the sights of the metropolis thundered forth to their eyes. Confused, delirious
with excitement and provincial longings, they tried to make ocular responses to the
megaphonic ritual. In the solemn spires of spreading cathedrals they saw the home of the
Vanderbilts; in the busy bulk of the Grand Central depot they viewed, wonderingly, the
frugal cot of Russell Sage. Bidden to observe the highlands of the Hudson, they gaped,
unsuspecting, at the upturned mountains of a new-laid sewer. To many the elevated
railroad was the Rialto, on the stations of which uniformed men sat and made chop suey
of your tickets. And to this day in the outlying districts many have it that Chuck Connors,
with his hand on his heart, leads reform; and that but for the noble municipal efforts of