As Talked in the Sanctum [pp. A465-A468]

AS TALKED IN THE SANCTUM.
It did not strike us then that we were parts of a picture that liad never been
painted but will some day. " The Circus Coming to Town," as we knew it, would
win the medal for the artist. The dust begrimed, shopworn elephant, the score
of straggling, gaudy cages, the draped grand band-wagon, the little company of
sleepy riders on spiritless horses, the cheap chariot trailing ignominiously behind the
baggage van, the heads of the " dazzling queens of the ring" peeping from between
the canvas covers of a leather-springed couch, all half revealed in clouds of heavy
dust, the brown of the road, the red of the sumac, the green of the fields and the
gold of the stubble, the soft blue of the sky, and the wonder-eyed admiration of a
dozen little country boys in blue jeans and chip hats, are but items in the uncon scious stage. Far below us was the valley and the little town -one aimless street
with houses and gardens and trees on either side, two miles long, with a district
schoolhouse at either end. Cryder Creek wound and twisted and doubled back
and forth as though loath to leave the grist mill and the swimming pond.
The chariot race was over. The din subsided so that the clang of the cable cars
without was distinguishable. I pressed the Contributor's hand. He looked up with
a start. There was a foolish happy smile on his lips.
"Where have you been?" I asked, although I knew.
"Carrying water for the elephant," he answered, and we both laughed.
The Poet.
"How sad and bad and mad it was!
But then, how it was sweet!"
THE Contributor was passing up and down the Sanctum in shoes whose creaking
testified arrogantly of their newness.
The Contributor. " The small boy is a born hero-worshiper. At tenll he falls
down before the lion tamer and the leader of the brass band. When the circus departs,
he stretches a rope from one gnarled old apple tree to another and comes within an
inch of breaking his precious neck time and again in emulating the tight-rope-walker.
At twelve or fifteen, his big brother commands an undivided admiration that Robin
Hood never received. Such as only Boswell knew how to bestow. At sixteen or
seventeen, he has picked out some national hero and burns to make public speeches
and vote for him when he runs for Governor or President. It is fortunate if his
hero is worthy of his worship, if no one shatters his idol. It is better that the worshiper should grow strong and reliant in the fame of the worshiped."
The Reader. "The Contributor's sentimental mood does him credit. The boy
is but father of the man. Call in the Office Boy and find out which one of us he
has placed on a pedestal."
The Office Boy. " There is a man outside with a bill for — "
The Sanctum. " T'Fell him to call around again after the magazine comes out."
The Office Boy. (In outer office) "All gone out to lunch."
Man With Bill. " This is the seventeenth time I've been up here and I don't
intend to come again. See!"
Office Boy. "No, I don't see."
Man With Bill. "Don't get fresh, son."
Office Boy. " I won't, if that's what ails you."
Man. "What's that?"
Office Boy. " The Wilson Bill has put a duty on salt."
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