From The Crow's Nest
:
When The Sleeper Wakes
And so after strange delays and through an avenue of doubt and battle,
this man from the nineteenth century came at last to his position at the
head of that complex world.
At first when he rose from the long deep sleep that followed his rescue
and the surrender of the Council, he did not recognise his surroundings.
By an effort he gained a clue in his mind, and all that had happened
came back to hi
, at first with a quality of insincerity like a story
heard, like something read out of a book. And even before his memories
were clear, the exultation of his escape, the wonder of his prominence
were back in his mind. He was owner of half the world; Master of the
Earth. This new great age was in the completest sense his. He no longer
hoped to discover his experiences a dream; he became anxious now to
convince himself that they were real.
An obsequious valet assisted him to dress under the direction of a
dignified chief attendant, a little man whose face proclaimed him
Japanese, albeit he spoke English like an Englishman. From the latter he
learnt something of the state of affairs. Already the revolution was an
accepted fact; already business was being resumed throughout the city.
Abroad the downfall of the Council had been received for the most part
with delight. Nowhere was the Council popular, and the thousand cities
of Western America, after two hundred years still jealous of New York,
London, and the East, had risen almost unanimously two days before at
the news of Graham's imprisonment. Paris was fighting within itself. The
rest of the world hung in suspense.
While he was breaking his fast, the sound of a telephone bell jetted
from a corner, and his chief attendant called his attention to the voice
of Ostrog making polite enquiries. Graham interrupted his refreshment
to reply. Very shortly Lincoln arrived, and Graham at once expressed
a strong desire to talk to people and to be shown more of the new life
that was opening before him. Lincoln informed him that in three hours'
time a representative gathering of officials and their wives would be
held in the state apartments of the wind-vane Chief. Graham's desire
to traverse the ways of the city was, however, at present impossible,
because of the enormous excitement of the people. It was, however, quite
possible for him to take a bird's eye view of the city from the crow's
nest of the windvane keeper. To this accordingly Graham was conducted
by his attendant. Lincoln, with a graceful compliment to the attendant,
apologised for not accompanying them, on account of the present pressure
of administrative work.
Higher even than the most gigantic wind-wheels hung this crow's nest,
a clear thousand feet above the roofs, a little disc-shaped speck on a
spear of metallic filigree, cable stayed. To its summit Graham was drawn
in a little wire-hung cradle. Halfway down the frail-seeming stem was
a light gallery about which hung a cluster of tubes--minute they looked
from above--rotating slowly on the ring of its outer rail. These were
the specula, en rapport with the wind-vane keeper's mirrors, in one
of which Ostrog had shown him the coming of his rule. His Japanese
attendant ascended before him and they spent nearly an hour asking and
answering questions.
It was a day full of the promise and quality of spring. The touch of the
wind warmed. The sky was an intense blue and the vast expanse of London
shone dazzling under the morning sun. The air was clear of smoke and
haze, sweet as the air of a mountain glen.
Save for the irregular oval of ruins about the House of the Council and
the black flag of the surrender that fluttered there, the mighty city
seen from above showed few signs of the swift revolution that had, to
his imagination, in one night and one day, changed the destinies of the
world. A multitude of people still swarmed over these ruins, and the
huge openwork stagings in the distance from which started in times of
peace the service of aeroplanes to the various great cities of Europe
and America, were also black with the victors. Across a narrow way of
planking raised on trestles that crossed the ruins a crowd of workmen
were busy restoring the connection between the cables and wires of the
Council House and the rest of the city, preparatory to the transfer
thither of Ostrog's headquarters from the Wind-Vane buildings.
For the rest the luminous expanse was undisturbed. So vast was its
serenity in comparison with the areas of disturbance, that presently
Graham, looking beyond them, could almost forget the thousands of men
lying out of sight in the artificial glare within the quasi-subterranean
labyrinth, dead or dying of the overnight wounds, forget the improvised
wards with the hosts of surgeons, nurses, and bearers feverishly busy,
forget, indeed,' all the wonder, consternation and novelty under the
electric lights. Down there in the hidden ways of the anthill he knew
that the revolution triumphed, that black everywhere carried the day,
black favours, black banners, black festoons across the streets. And out
here, under the fresh sunlight, beyond the crater of the fight, as if
nothing had happened to the earth, the forest of Wind Vanes that had
grown from one or two while the Council had ruled, roared peacefully
upon their incessant duty.
Far away, spiked, jagged and indented by the wind vanes, the Surrey
Hills rose blue and faint; to the north and nearer, the sharp contours
of Highgate and Muswell Hill were similarly jagged. And all over the
countryside, he knew, on every crest and hill, where once the hedges
had interlaced, and cottages, churches, inns, and farmhouses had nestled
among their trees, wind wheels similar to those he saw and bearing like
vast advertisements, gaunt and distinctive symbols of the new age, cast
their whirling shadows and stored incessantly the energy that flowed
away incessantly through all the arteries of the city. And underneath
these wandered the countless flocks and herds of the British Food Trust
with their lonely guards and keepers.
Not a familiar outline anywhere broke the cluster of gigantic shapes
below. St. Paul's he knew survived, and many of the old buildings in
Westminster, embedded out of sight, arched over and covered in among the
giant growths of this great age. The Themes, too, made no fall and gleam
of silver to break the wilderness of the city; the thirsty water mains
drank up every drop of its waters before they reached the walls. Its bed
and estuary scoured and sunken, was now a canal of sea water and a race
of grimy bargemen brought the heavy materials of trade from the Pool
thereby beneath the very feet of the workers. Faint and dim in the
eastward between earth and sky hung the clustering masts of the colossal
shipping in the Pool. For all the heavy traffic, for which there was
no need of haste, came in gigantic sailing ships from the ends of the
earth, and the heavy goods for which there was urgency in mechanical
ships of a smaller swifter sort.
And to the south over the hills, came vast aqueducts with sea water
for the sewers and in three separate directions, ran pallid lines--the
roads, stippled with moving grey specks. On the first occasion that
offered he was determined to go out and see these roads. That would come
after the flying ship he was presently to try. His attendant officer
described them as a pair of gently curving surfaces a hundred yards
wide, each one for the traffic going in one direction, and made of a
substance called Eadhamite--an artificial substance, so far as he could
gather, resembling toughened glass. Along this shot a strange traffic of
narrow rubber-shod vehicles, great single wheels, two and four wheeled
vehicles, sweeping along at velocities of from one to six miles
a minute. Railroads had vanished; a few embankments remained as
rust-crowned trenches here and there. Some few formed the cores of
Eadhamite ways.
Among the first things to strike his attention had been the great fleets
of advertisement balloons and kites that receded in irregular vistas
northward and southward along the lines of the aeroplane journeys. No
aeroplanes were to be seen. Their passages had ceased, and only one
little-seeming aeropile circled high in the blue distance above the
Surrey Hills, an unimpressive soaring speck.
A thing Graham had already learnt, and which he found very hard to
imagine, was that nearly all the towns in the country, and almost all
the villages, had disappeared. Here and there only, he understood,
some gigantic hotel-like edifice stood amid square miles of some single
cultivation and preserved the name of a town--as Bournemouth, Wareham,
or Swanage. Yet the officer had speedily convinced him how inevitable
such a change had been. The old order had dotted the country with
farmhouses, and every two or three miles was the ruling landlord's
estate, and the place of the inn and cobbler, the grocer's shop and
church--the village. Every eight miles or so was the country town,
where lawyer, corn merchant, wool-stapler, saddler, veterinary surgeon,
doctor, draper, milliner and so forth lived. Every eight miles--simply
because that eight mile marketing journey, four there and back, was as
much as was comfortable for the farmer. But directly the railways came
into play, and after them the light railways, and all the swift new
motor cars that had replaced waggons and horses, and so soon as the high
roads began to be made of wood, and rubber, and Eadhamite, and all sorts
of elastic durable substances--the necessity of having such frequent
market towns disappeared. And the big towns grew. They drew the worker
with the gravitational force of seemingly endless work, the employer
with their suggestions of an infinite ocean of labour.
And as the standard of comfort rose, as the complexity of the mechanism
of living increased life in the country had become more and more costly,
or narrow and impossible. The disappearance of vicar and squire, the
extinction of the general practitioner by the city specialist, had
robbed the village of its last touch of culture. After telephone,
kinematograph and phonograph had replaced newspaper, book, schoolmaster,
and letter, to live outside the range of the electric cables was to live
an isolated savage. In the country were neither means of being clothed
nor fed (according to the refined conceptions of the time), no efficient
doctors for an emergency, no company and no pursuits.
Moreover, mechanical appliances in agriculture made one engineer the
equivalent of thirty labourers. So, inverting the condition of the city
clerk in the days when London was scarce inhabitable because of the
coaly foulness of its air, the labourers now came hurrying by road or
air to the city and its life and delights at night to leave it again in
the morning. The city had swallowed up humanity; man had entered upon a
new stage in his development. First had come the nomad, the hunter, then
had followed the agriculturist of the agricultural state, whose towns
and cities and ports were but the headquarters and markets of the
countryside. And now, logical consequence of an epoch of invention,
was this huge new aggregation of men. Save London, there were only
four other cities in Britain--Edinburgh, Portsmouth, Manchester and
Shrewsbury. Such things as these, simple statements of fact though they
were to contemporary men, strained Graham's imagination to picture. And
when he glanced "over beyond there" at the strange things that existed
on the Continent, it failed him altogether.
He had a vision of city beyond city, cities on great plains, cities
beside great rivers, vast cities along the sea margin, cities girdled by
snowy mountains. Over a great part of the earth the English tongue was
spoken; taken together with its Spanish American and Hindoo and Negro
and "Pidgin" dialects, it was the everyday language of two-thirds of
the people of the earth. On the Continent, save as remote and curious
survivals, three other languages alone held sway--German, which reached
to Antioch and Genoa and jostled Spanish-English at Gdiz, a Gallicised
Russian which met the Indian English in Persia and Kurdistan and the
"Pidgin" English in Pekin, and French still clear and brilliant, the
language of lucidity, which shared the Mediterranean with the Indian
English and German and reached through a negro dialect to the Congo.
And everywhere now, through the city-set earth, save in the administered
"black belt" territories of the tropics, the same cosmopolitan social
organisation prevailed, and everywhere from Pole to Equator his property
and his responsibilities extended. The whole world was civilised; the
whole world dwelt in cities; the whole world was property. Over the
British Empire and throughout America his ownership was scarcely
disguised, Congress and Parliament were usually regarded as antique,
curious gatherings. And even in the two Empires of Russia and Germany,
the influence of his wealth was conceivably of enormous weight. There,
of course, came problems--possibilities, but, uplifted as he was, even
Russia and Germany seemed sufficiently remote. And of the quality of the
black belt administration, and of what that might mean for him he
thought, after the fashion of his former days, not at all. That it
should hang like a threat over the spacious vision before him could not
enter his nineteenth century mind. But his mind turned at once from the
scenery to the thought of a vanished dread. "What of the yellow peril?"
he asked and Asano made him explain. The Chinese spectre had vanished.
Chinaman and European were at peace. The twentieth century had
discovered with reluctant certainty that the average Chinaman was as
civilised, more moral, and far more intelligent than the average
European serf, and had repeated on a gigantic scale the fraternisation
of Scot and Englishman that happened in the seventeenth century. As
Asano put it; "They thought it over. They found we were white men after
all." Graham turned again to the view and his thoughts took a new
direction.
Out of the dim south-west, glittering and strange, voluptuous, and
in some way terrible, shone those Pleasure Cities, of which the
kinematograph-phonograph and the old man in the street had spoken.
Strange places reminiscent of the legendary Sybaris, cities of art and
beauty, mercenary art and mercenary beauty, sterile wonderful cities
of motion and music, whither repaired all who profited by the fierce,
inglorious, economic struggle that went on in the glaring labyrinth
below.
Fierce he knew it was. How fierce he could judge from the fact that
these latter-day people referred back to the England of the nineteenth
century as the figure of an idyllic easy-going life. He turned his eyes
to the scene immediately before him again, trying to conceive the big
factories of that intricate maze.
Northward he knew were the potters, makers not only of earthenware and
china, but of the kindred pastes and compounds a subtler mineralogical
chemistry had devised; there were the makers of statuettes and wall
ornaments and much intricate furniture; there too were the factories
where feverishly competitive authors devised their phonograph discourses
and advertisements and arranged the groupings and developments for their
perpetually startling and novel kinematographic dramatic works. Thence,
too, flashed the world-wide messages, the world-wide falsehoods of the
news-tellers, the chargers of the telephonic machines that had replaced
the newspapers of the past.
To the westward beyond the smashed Council House were the voluminous
offices of municipal control and government; and to the eastward,
towards the port, the trading quarters, the huge public markets, the
theatres, houses of resort, betting palaces, miles of billiard saloons,
baseball and football circuses, wild beast rings and the innumerable
temples of the Christian and quasi-Christian sects, the Mahomedans,
Buddhists, Gnostics, Spook Worshippers, the Incubus Worshippers, the
Furniture Worshippers, and so forth; and to the south again a vast
manufacture of textiles, pickles, wines and condiments. And from point
to point tore the countless multitudes along the roaring mechanical
ways. A gigantic hive, of which the winds were tireless servants, and
the ceaseless wind-vanes an appropriate crown and symbol.
He thought of the unprecedented population that had been sucked up by
this sponge of halls and galleries--the thirty-three million lives that
were playing out each its own brief ineffectual drama below him, and the
complacency that the brightness of the day and the space and splendour
of the view, and above all the sense of his own importance had begotten,
dwindled and perished. Looking down from this height over the city
it became at last possible to conceive this overwhelming multitude of
thirty-three millions, the reality of the responsibility he would take
upon himself, the vastness of the human Maelstrom over which his slender
kingship hung.
He tried to figure the individual life. It astonished him to realise how
little the common man had changed in spite of the visible change in his
conditions. Life and property, indeed, were secure from violence almost
all over the world, zymotic diseases, bacterial diseases of all sorts
had practically vanished, everyone had a sufficiency of food and
clothing, was warmed in the city ways and sheltered from the weather--so
much the almost mechanical progress of science and the physical
organisation of society had accomplished. But the crowd, he was already
beginning to discover, was a crowd still, helpless in the hands of
demagogue and organiser, individually cowardly, individually swayed by
appetite, collectively incalculable. The memory of countless figures in
pale blue canvas came before his mind. Millions of such men and women
below him, he knew, had never been out of the city, had never seen
beyond the little round of unintelligent grudging participation in the
world's business, and unintelligent dissatisfied sharing in its tawdrier
pleasures. He thought of the hopes of his vanished contemporaries,
and for a moment the dream of London in Morris's quaint old News
from Nowhere, and the perfect land of Hudson's beautiful Crystal
Age--appeared before him in an atmosphere of infinite loss. He thought
of his own hopes.
For in the latter days of that passionate life that lay now so far
behind him, the conception of a free and equal manhood had become a very
real thing to him. He had hoped, as indeed his age had hoped, rashly
taking it for granted, that the sacrifice of the many to the few would
some day cease, that a day was near when every child born of woman
should have a fair and assured chance of happiness. And here, after
two hundred years, the same hope, still unfulfilled, cried passionately
through the city. After two hundred years, he knew, greater than ever,
grown with the city to gigantic proportions, were poverty and helpless
labour and all the sorrows of his time.
Already he knew something of the history of the intervening years.
He had heard now of the moral decay that had followed the collapse of
supernatural religion in the minds of ignoble man, the decline of public
honour, the ascendency of wealth. For men who had lost their belief in
God had still kept their faith in property, and wealth ruled a venial
world.
His Japanese attendant, Asano, in expounding the political history of
the intervening two centuries, drew an apt image from a seed eaten by
insect parasites. First there is the original seed, ripening vigorously
enough. And then comes some insect and lays an egg under the skin, and
behold! in a little while the seed is a hollow shape with an active grub
inside that has eaten out its substance. And then comes some secondary
parasite, some ichneumon fly, and lays an egg within this grub, and
behold! that, too, is a hollow shape, and the new living thing is inside
its predecessor's skin which itself is snug within the seed coat. And
the seed coat still keeps its shape, most people think it a seed still,
and for all one knows it may still think itself a seed, vigorous and
alive. "Your Victorian kingdom," said Asano, "was like that--kingship
with the heart eaten out. The landowners--the barons and gentry--began
ages ago with King John; there were lapses, but they beheaded King
Charles, and ended practically with King George mere husk of a king...
the real power in the hands of their parliament. But the Parliament--the
organ of the land-holding tenant-ruling gentry--did not keep its
power long. The change had already come in the nineteenth century. The
franchises had been broadened until it included masses of ignorant
men, 'urban myriads,' who went in their featureless thousands to vote
together. And the natural consequence of a swarming constituency is the
rule of the party organisation. Power was passing even in the Victorian
time to the party machinery, secret, complex, and corrupt. Very speedily
power was in the hands of great men of business who financed the
machines. A time came when the real power and interest of the Empire
rested visibly between the two party councils, ruling by newspapers and
electoral organisations--two small groups of rich and able men, working
at first in opposition, then presently together."
There was a reaction of a genteel ineffectual sort. There were
numberless books in existence, Asano said, to prove that--the
publication of some of them was as early as Graham's sleep--a whole
literature of reaction in fact. The party of the reaction seems to
have locked itself into its study and rebelled with unflinching
determination--on paper. The urgent necessity of either capturing or
depriving the party councils of power is a common suggestion underlying
all the thoughtful work of the early twentieth century, both in America
and England. In most of these things America was a little earlier than
England, though both countries drove the same way.
That counter-revolution never came. It could never organise and keep
pure. There was not enough of the old sentimentality, the old faith in
righteousness, left among men. Any organisation that became big enough
to influence the polls became complex enough to be undermined, broken
up, or bought outright by capable rich men. Socialistic and Popular,
Reactionary and Purity Parties were all at last mere Stock Exchange
counters, selling their principles to pay for their electioneering. And
the great concern of the rich was naturally to keep property intact, the
board clear for the game of trade. Just as the feudal concern had
been to keep the board clear for hunting and war. The whole world was
exploited, a battle field of businesses; and financial convulsions, the
scourge of currency manipulation, tariff wars, made more human misery
during the twentieth century--because the wretchedness was dreary life
instead of speedy death--than had war, pestilence and famine, in the
darkest hours of earlier history.
His own part in the development of this time he now knew clearly enough.
Through the successive phases in the development of this mechanical
civilisation, aiding and presently directing its development, there had
grown a new power, the Council, the board of his trustees. At first it
had been a mere chance union of the millions of Isbister and Warming, a
mere property holding company, the creation of two childless testators'
whims, but the collective talent of its first constitution had speedily
guided it to a vast influence, until by title deed, loan and share,
under a hundred disguises and pseudonyms it had ramified through the
fabric of the American and English States.
Wielding an enormous influence and patronage, the Council had early
assumed a political aspect; and in its development it had continually
used its wealth to tip the beam of political decisions and its political
advantages to grasp yet more and more wealth. At last the party
organisations of two hemispheres were in its hands; it became an inner
council of political control. Its last struggle was with the tacit
alliance of the great Jewish families. But these families were linked
only by a feeble sentiment, at any time inheritance might fling a huge
fragment of their resources to a minor, a woman or a fool, marriages and
legacies alienated hundreds of thousands at one blow. The Council had no
such breach in its continuity. Steadily, steadfastly it grew.
The original Council was not simply twelve men of exceptional ability;
they fused, it was a council of genius. It struck boldly for riches,
for political influence, and the two subserved each other. With amazing
foresight it spent great sums of money on the art of flying, holding
that invention back against an hour foreseen. It used the patent laws,
and a thousand half-legal expedients, to hamper all investigators who
refused to work with it. In the old days it never missed a capable man.
It paid his price. Its policy in those days was vigorous--unerring,
and against it as it grew steadily and incessantly was only the chaotic
selfish rule of the casually rich. In a hundred years Graham had become
almost exclusive owner of Africa, of South America, of France, of
London, of England and all its influence--for all practical purposes,
that is--a power in North America--then the dominant power in America.
The Council bought and organised China, drilled Asia, crippled the Old
World empires, undermined them financially, fought and defeated them.
And this spreading usurpation of the world was so dexterously
performed--a proteus--hundreds of banks, companies, syndicates, masked
the Council's operations--that it was already far advanced before common
men suspected the tyranny that had come. The Council never hesitated,
never faltered. Means of communication, land, buildings, governments,
municipalities, the territorial companies of the tropics, every human
enterprise, it gathered greedily. And it drilled and marshalled its men,
its railway police, its roadway police, its house guards, and drain and
cable guards, its hosts of land-workers. Their unions it did not fight,
but it undermined and betrayed and bought them. It bought the world
at last. And, finally, its culminating stroke was the introduction of
flying.
When the Council, in conflict with the workers in some of its huge
monopolies, did something flagrantly illegal and that without even the
ordinary civility of bribery, the old Law, alarmed for the profits of
its complaisance, looked about it for weapons. But there were no
more armies, no fighting navies; the age of Peace had' come. The
only possible war ships were the great steam vessels of the Council's
Navigation Trust. The police forces they controlled; the police of
the railways, of the ships, of their agricultural estates, their
time-keepers and order-keepers, outnumbered the neglected little forces
of the old country and municipal organisations ten to one. And they
produced flying machines. There were men alive still who could remember
the last great debate in the London House of Commons--the legal party,
the party against the Council was in a minority, but it made a desperate
fight--and how the members came crowding out upon the terrace to see
these great unfamiliar winged shapes circling quietly overhead. The
Council had soared to its power. The last sham of a democracy that had
permitted unlimited irresponsible property was at an end.
Within one hundred and fifty years of Graham's falling asleep, his
Council had thrown off its disguises and ruled openly, supreme in his
name. Elections had become a cheerful formality, a septennial folly,
an ancient unmeaning custom; a social Parliament as ineffectual as the
convocation of the Established Church in Victorian times assembled now
and then; and a legitimate King of England, disinherited, drunken
and witless, played foolishly in a second-rate music-hall. So the
magnificent dream of the nineteenth century, the noble project of
universal individual liberty and universal happiness, touched by a
disease of honour, crippled by a superstition of absolute property,
crippled by the religious feuds that had robbed the common citizens of
education, robbed men of standards of conduct, and brought the sanctions
of morality to utter contempt, had worked itself out in the face of
invention and ignoble enterprise, first to a warring plutocracy, and
finally to the rule of a supreme plutocrat. His Council at last
had ceased even to trouble to have its decrees endorsed by the
constitutional authorities, and he a motionless, sunken, yellow-skinned
figure had lain, neither dead nor living, recognisably and immediately
Master of the Earth. And awoke at last to find himself--Master of that
inheritance! Awoke to stand under the cloudless empty sky and gaze down
upon the greatness of his dominion.
To what end had he awakened? Was this city, this hive of hopeless
toilers, the final refutation of his ancient hopes? Or was the fire of
liberty, the fire that had blazed and waned in the years of his past
life, still smouldering below there? He thought of the stir and impulse
of the song of the revolution. Was that song merely the trick of a
demagogue, to be forgotten when its purpose was served? Was the hope
that still stirred within him only the memory of abandoned things,
the vestige of a creed outworn? Or had it a wider meaning, an import
interwoven with the destiny of man? To what end had he awakened, what
was there for him to do? Humanity was spread below him like a map. He
thought of the millions and millions of humanity following each other
unceasingly for ever out of the darkness of non-existence into the
darkness of death. To what end? Aim there must be, but it transcended
his power of thought. He saw for the first time clearly his own infinite
littleness, saw stark and terrible the tragic contrast of human strength
and the craving of the human heart. For that little while he knew
himself for the petty accident he was, and knew therewith the greatness
of his desire. And suddenly his littleness was intolerable, his
aspiration was intolerable, and there came to him an irresistible
impulse to pray. And he prayed. He prayed vague, incoherent,
contradictory things, his soul strained up through time and space and
all the fleeting multitudinous confusion of being, towards something--he
scarcely knew what--towards something that could comprehend his striving
and endure.
A man and a woman were far below on a roof space to the southward
enjoying the freshness of the morning air. The man had brought out a
perspective glass to spy upon the Council House and he was showing her
how to use it. Presently their curiosity was satisfied, they could see
no traces of bloodshed from their position, and after a survey of the
empty sky she came round to the crow's nest. And there she saw two
little black figures, so small it was hard to believe they were men,
one who watched and one who gesticulated with hands outstretched to the
silent emptiness of Heaven.
She handed the glass to the man. He looked and exclaimed:
"I believe it is the Master. Yes. I am sure. It is the Master!"
He lowered the glass and looked at her. "Waving his hands about almost
as if he was praying. I wonder what he is up to. Worshipping the sun?
There weren't Parses in this country in his time, were there?"
He looked again. "He's stopped it now. It was a chance attitude, I
suppose." He put down the glass and became meditative. "He won't have
anything to do but enjoy himself--just enjoy himself. Ostrog will boss
the show of course. Ostrog will have to, because of keeping all these
Labourer fools in bounds. Them and their song! And got it all by
sleeping, dear eyes--just sleeping. It's a wonderful world."