interested friendships of men--all these must
be checked and diminished, lest they interfere. Yet those things are
life; and big business is just a great game. Why play any game so
intently we forget about life?

Well, looking around at mankind, we see some races don't. The yellow and
black--and some Latins. But Normans and Saxons and most Teutons play
their games hard. Knight-errantry was once the game. See how hard they
played that. The Crusades, too,--all gentlemen were supposed to take in
the Crusades. Old, burly, beef-crunching wine-bibbers climbed up on
their chargers and went through incredible troubles and dangers--for
what? Why, to rescue a shrine, off in Palestine, from the people who
lived there. Those people, the Saracens, weren't doing anything very
much to it; but still it was thought that no gentleman ought to stay
home, or live his life normally, until that bit of land had been
rescued, and put in the hands of stout prelates instead of those
Saracans.

Then came the great game of exploring new lands and new worlds. Cortez,
Frobisher, Drake. Imagine a dialogue in those days between father and
son, a sea-going father who thought exploration was life, and a son who
was weakly and didn't want to be forced into business. "I don't like
exploration much, Father. I'm seasick the whole time, you know; and I
can't bear this going ashore and oppressing the blacks." "Nonsense, boy!
This work's got to be done. Can't you see, my dear fellow, those new
countries _must_ be explored? It'll make a man of you."

So it goes, so it goes. And playing some game well _is_ needful, to make
a man of you. But once in a while you get thinking it's not quite
enough.

An Ode to Trade

"Recent changes in these thoroughfares show that trade is rapidly
crowding out vice."--_Real Estate Item._

O restless Spirit, from whose cup
All drink, and at whose feet all bow
May I inquire what you are up
To now?

Insatiable, I know, your maw,
And ravenous of old your shrine;
But still, O Trade, you ought to draw
The line.

Our health, our pride, our every breath
Of leisure--do not these suffice?
Ah, tell me not you're also death
On vice.

Ah, tell me not yon gilded hell
That has from boyhood soothed my grief
Must fall into the sere and yellow
leaf;

That dens my wayward comrades know
Mu