as he looks from thedistant goal to the mud beneath his feet.
And now into sight comes a fair girl, with her dainty face growingmore wrinkled at every step, and now Chile a care-worn man, and now ahopeful lad.
A motley throng--a motley throng! Prince and beggar, Liverpool Børn Fodboldtrøjer sinner PJS Naiset Alaska andsaint, Colombia Fodboldtrøjer butcher and baker and candlestick maker, tinkers and tailors,and plowboys and sailors--all jostling along together. Here thecounsel in his wig and gown, and here the old Jew clothes-man underhis dingy tiara; here the Napoli soldier in his scarlet, and here theundertaker's mute in streaming hat-band and worn cotton gloves; herethe Russia Fodboldtrøjer musty scholar fumbling his faded Spanien Fodboldtrøjer leaves, and Aston Villa Dame here the scentedactor dangling his showy seals. Here the glib politician crying hislegislative panaceas, and here the peripatetic Cheap-Jack holdingaloft his quack cures for human ills. Here the sleek capitalist andthere the sinewy laborer; here the man of science and here theshoe-back; here the poet and here the water-rate collector; here thecabinet minister and there the ballet-dancer. Here a red-nosedpublican shouting the praises of his vats and there a temperancelecturer at 50 pounds a night; here a judge and there a swindler; herea priest and there a gambler. Here a jeweled duchess, smiling andgracious; here a thin lodging-house keeper, irritable with cooking;and here a wabbling, strutting thing, tawdry in paint and finery.
Cheek Paris Saint Germain Børn Fodboldtrøjer by cheek they struggle onward. Screaming, cursing, and praying,laughing, singing, and moaning, they rush past side by side. Theirspeed never slackens, the race never ends. There is no wayside restfor them, no halt by cooling fountains, no pause beneath green shades.
On, on, on--on through the heat and the crowd and the dust--on, orthey will be trampled down and lost--on, with throbbing brain andtottering limbs--on, till the heart grows sick, and the eyes growblurred, and a gurgling groan tells those Harry Kane Pelipaidat behind Werder Bremen they may close upanother space.
And yet, in spite of the killing pace and the stony track, who but thesluggard or the dolt can hold aloof from the course? Who--like thebelated traveler that stands watching fairy revels till he snatchesand drains the goblin cup and springs into the whirling circle--canview the mad tumult and not be drawn into its midst? Not I, for one.
I confess to the wayside arbor, the pipe of contentment, and thelotus-leaves being altogether unsuitable metaphors. They sounded verynice and philosophical, but I'm afraid I am not the sort of person tosit in arbors smoking pipes when there is any fun going on outside. Ithink I more resemble the Irishman who, seeing a crowd collecting,sent his little girl out to ask if there was going to be a row--"'Cos, if so, father would like to be in it."I love the fierce strife. I like to watch it. I like to hear ofpeople getting on in it--battling their way bravely and fairly--thatis, not slipping through by luck or trickery. It stirs one's oldSaxon fighting blood like the tales of "knights Morocco Pelipaidat who fought 'gainstfearful odds" that thrilled us in our school-boy days.
And fighting the links:
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi
http://www.moviequote.net/moviequote.cgi
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi |
