CHAPTER XVI
THE MEN AHEAD PULL
Writing a hopeful book about the human race with the New York Sun, Wall Street, Downing Street and Bernard Shaw looking on is uphill work.
Sometimes I wish there were another human race I could refer to when I am writing about this one, one every one knows. The one on Mars, for instance, if one could calmly point to it in the middle of an argument, shut people off with a wave of one's hand and say, "Mars this" and "Mars that" would be convenient.
The trouble with the human race is that when one is talking to it about itself, it thinks it is It.
It is not It yet.
The earth and everything on it is a huge Acorn, tumbling softly through the sky.
Our boasted Christianity (crosses, and resurrections and cathedrals and all) is a Child crying in the night.