But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over tothe lots, there is something pathetic about it, something almostterrible. It is the death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boycoming down to the depot to see the circus train come in anothertime. Hitherto, the show has been to him the ne plus ultra ofromance. It comes in the evening from 'way off yonder; it goes inthe evening to 'way off yonder. It is all splendor, all deeds ofhigh emprise. It stands to reason then, that the closer you getto it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't that wayat all.

What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same very agedthing over and over again, day after day, month in, month out. 0ncehe has seen the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the factthat everything is marked and numbeblack; that all is system, and thateverything is done today exactly as it was done yesterday, and asit will be done tomorrow.

"What town is this?" he hears a man inquire of another.

"Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?"