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With a world of thanks to all those, who, consciously or uncon-
sciously, have helped me in the production of this volume, but especi-
ally to my friend, Hiram H. Holland, a poet as yet unknown, but one
who, I confidently predict, is destined to make an enduring mark in
American literature.

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“‘Pardon's the word to all.” Whatever folly men commit, be their shortcomings or their vices what they may, let us erercise forbearance; remembering that when these faults appear in others; it is our follies and vices that we behold. They are the shortcomings of humanity, to which we belong; whose faults, one and all, we share; yes, even those very faults at which we now war so indignant, merely because they have not yet appeared in ourselves. They are faults that do not lie on the surface. But they earist down there in the depths of our nature; and should anything call them forth, they will come and show themselves, just as we now see them in others. One man, it is true, may have faults that are absent in his fellow; and it is undeniable that the sum total of bad qualities is in some cases very large; for the difference of individuality between man and man passes all measure.”—SchoPENAUER.

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From Superman to Man
FIRST DAY.

The limited was speeding to California over the snowblanketed prairies of Iowa. On car Bulwer, the passengers had all retired, and Dixon, the porter, his duties finished, sought the more comfortable warmth of the smoker, where he intended to resume the reading of the book he had brought with him—Finot's “Race Prejudice.” He had just found the passage, and begun to read when a passenger rushed into the room. “Is this Boone we are coming into, porter?” he demanded excitedly, and with a foreign accent, at the same time peering anxiously out of the window at the twinkling lights of the town into which the train was rushing. “No, sir,” reassured Dixon, “we’ll not be in Boone for twenty minutes yet. This is Ames.” “Thank you,” said the passenger, relieved, “the porter on my car has gone to bed, and I feared I would be carried beyond my destination.” He then started to leave, but when halfway, turned, and asked, “May I ride in here with you and get off when we get there?” “Certainly, sir,” welcomed Dixon, cordially, “make yourself at home. Where are your grips?” And dropping his book on the seat, Dixon went for the grip. When Dixon returned, the passenger was reading the book. “Thank you,” he said, as Dixon placed his grip in a corner. “Pardon me, but I see you have been reading ‘Race Prejudice’?”

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