“Ladies and gentlemen! A single word in closing. Our transcontinental journey this evening ended at the Golden Gate. When life's journey ends, may we not so pause, but, as the poet Judson Backus sweetly sings:—
'May we find an angel wait
To lead us through the “golden gate.”'
“Meanwhile, adieu.”
David Prince and his wife walked slowly home in the clear, cold moonlight.
“Did you notice,” said Delia, “how the man kept saying that he didn't know just what to pick out, to show? Well, I heard the Kelley boy, that helped at the lamps, say that they showed every identical picture there was. I suppose they are a lot of odds and ends he picked up at an auction.”
“I think he was a kind of a humbug,” said Calvin Green, who, with his wife, had come up close behind. “See how he kept dragging in his morals, jes like overhauling a trawl and taking off a haddock, every once in so often.”
“What away to travel,” said his wife; “to go ker-jump from New York City to Niagara, and from there to Cleveland. He must have thought we had long stilts.”
“The pictures were rather here and there and everywhere, to be sure,”, said David; “but I have a good deal of charity for these men; I s'pose they 're put to it for bread and butter.”
“Well, I don't know,” said Green; “I don't think it has a good influence on young people to show such a picture as that man that they murdered by slicing his head off with that machine. I don't like such things to be brought up.”