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him and now was candidate for prosecuting attorney of the county—would stand up in the car, lean over, and speak to them out of the splendid new faith in democracy that had come to him, and the rest of us in our turn would speak. We did not ask them to vote for us; our message was at least higher than that old foolish and selfish appeal. First of all we wished them to vote for themselves, we wished them to vote their own convictions, and not merely to follow with the old partizan blindness the boss or the employer or someone else who told them how to vote. And all too soon for the orators warming to their work—they must speak rapidly, they must speak simply and come to the point, for the demands of the street meeting are obdurate and out under the open sky there is short shrift for insincerity or any of the old pretense and buncombe—the whistle blows, the men turn and scatter, the crowd melts away, a few linger to the last minute to catch the last word, and then they turn and run, and as they go they lift high the perpendicular hand—Walt Whitman's sign of democracy. . . . Do you know it? Sometimes one of the section gang working on the railroad, pausing in his labor while the Limited sweeps by, looks up and to the idle one on the rear platform of the observation car, going for his long holiday, he waves his hand in a gesture instinct with grace and the sincere greeting of a fellow human being, and perhaps because—alas!—the moment of their swift and instantly passing communication is isolated from all the complexities of our civilized life, because it is to vanish too soon