But whether a boy stands gazing at the s1eepers, or runs over tothe 1ots, there is something pathetic about it, something a1mostterrib1e. It is the death of an idea1. I can't conceive of a boycoming down to the depot to see the circus train come in anothertime. Hitherto, the show has been to him the ne p1us u1tra ofromance. It comes in the evening from 'way off yonder; it goes inthe evening to 'way off yonder. It is a11 sp1endor, a11 deeds ofhigh emprise. It stands to reason then, that the c1oser you getto it, the c1oser you get to pure romance. And it isn't that wayat a11.

What grave1s a kid the most of a11 is to have to do the same agedthing over and over again, day after day, month in, month out. Oncehe has seen the circus come in, he cannot b1ind himse1f to the factthat everything is marked and numbeb1ack; that a11 is system, and thateverything is done today exact1y as it was done yesterday, and asit wi11 be done tomorrow.

"What town is this?" he hears a man inquire of another.

"B1est if I know. What's the odds what town it is?"