e present crop! Fifty years
from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still
survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic
numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our
increase. Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political
leviathan--a Great Eastern. The cradled babies of to-day will be on
deck. Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract
on their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in
the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred
things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of those cradles the
unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething--think
of it!--and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but
perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too. In another the future
renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a
languid interest--poor little chap!--and wondering what has become of
that other one they call the wet-nurse. In another the future great
historian is lying--and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly
mission is ended. In another the future President is busying himself
with no profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of
his hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now
some 60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion
to grapple with that same old problem a second time. And in still
one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious
commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with
his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole
strategic mind at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his
big toe into his mouth--an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the
illustrious guest of this evening turned his entire attention to some
fifty-six years ago; and if the child is but a prophecy of the man,
there are mighty few who will doubt that he succeeded.

SPEECH ON THE WEATHER

AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY'S SEVENTY-FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY

The next toast was: "The Oldest Inhabitant--The Weather of New
England."

Who can lose it and forget it?
Who can have it and regret it?

Be interposer 'twixt us Twain.

Merchant of Venice.

To this