I.—THE KING
Pacing forward—backward—backward—forward, to and fro—a King.
With world weary eyes he gazes out of his window in search of his soul’s desire.
Before him a seething mass of heads, with eyes riveted upon him. Immovable, he stands and contemplates them.
Of what do they think?
Have they souls which long and cry out, day and night, for liberty?
Or are they satisfied with the narrow ring in which they move?
Do they know the joy of freedom: of vast expanses?
A surge of hatred passes through him and he has a longing to slay that sodden mass. Then it passes, and with a weary movement once more he paces to and fro.
Of what does he think?
Does he know that once again has been enacted an old drama and a King sold into captivity, or does he feel that it should be said:
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
II. THE TOILER
Up—down—down—up—from early morn.
Up—down—with slow and steady strides, until the rich brown earth holds up eager hands to receive its gifts.
Up—down—down—up—wearily plods the Toiler until the sun is high, when, with a long-drawn sigh, the time of rest is welcomed.
A bit of shade, a refreshing drink, and a little rest before the weary round begins again.
Up—down—down—up—day in and out.
“‘Monotonous,’ you say? Yes! if only the thought of the weary rounds is held. Compensation comes from a pat on the neck, which tells of appreciation and affection and the knowledge of being a necessary part of the whole. The harvest I sow is reaped and lessens in other lands the harvest of the Reaper.
“Up—down—down—up, with a stronger pull, for I am doing my bit, and
“‘To him who is faithful in small things much shall be given.’”