e forget where we have landed.... I was sitting in a
street-car just recently, near the rear door where the conductor stood.
I had admired his quiet handling of many small affairs, and the courtesy
with which he managed his part. When I saw the mild virtue and decency
of his face and head and ears, I wondered afresh that he should be
there.

He did the same thing each day, like a child compelled to remain at a
certain small table to turn over again and again a limited and unvarying
set of objects. There were but a few people in the car. I turned forward
to the shoulders of the motorman; and from his figure my mind wandered
to the myriads of men like him, somehow opening and shutting valves upon
the _juice_ and upon the passing force of steam--through tunnels and
trestles at this moment--driving trains and cars and ships around the
world.

It was all a learning of Order, an integration of Order; and yet this
motorman was held in rigid bands of steel, making the same unswerving
passage up and down the same streets, possibly a score of times each
day--his lessons of Order having long since lost their meaning; his
faculties narrowing as fingers tighten, lest Order break into chaos
again. And I wondered what a true teacher might have done for this
motorman as a child, to make the best and most of his forces. The
average child can be made into an extraordinary man. In some day, not
too far, it will be the first business of the Fatherland to open the
roads of production to those who are ready.

Now I was back with the conductor; found myself attentively regarding
his trousers.

They were of heavy wool and blue, doubtless as clean as the usual
every-day woollen wear of men.... Here is a peculiar thing: If we wear
white clothing for a day or two, an unmistakable soil attaches, so that
change is enforced. And yet, since there is no cry of Scandal across the
more civilised zones of earth, the many wear the same woollen outer
clothing winter and summer for months at a stretch. One must accept
this conclusion: It is not that we object to dirt, but that we do not
want the dirt obvious. The garment that holds dirt may be worn until its
threads break down, but the garment that shows dirt must be washed.

... They were heavy wool and blue. It was not the fabric alone, but the
cut that held my eye. They were shaped somehow like a wide _W_ that a
child might bend with stiff wire, a letter made to stand alone. I
suppose some firm mak