"Why, investments, stocks, bonds, industrial development and all that sort of thing." "Hm!" he grunted. "I thought as much!" "You mean that father misinformed me?" "Rather!" "Well, if he did, what is Socialism?" "Socialism," answered the young man slowly, while he fixed his eyes on the smouldering fire, "Socialism is a political movement, a concept of life, a philosophy, an interpretation, a prophecy, an ideal. It embraces history, economics, science, art, religion, literature and every phase of human activity. It explains life, points the way to better things, gives us hope, strengthens the weary and heavy-laden, bids us look upward and onward, and constitutes the most sublime ideal ever conceived by the soul of man!" "Can this be true?" the girl demanded, astonished. "Not only can, but is! Socialism would free the world from slavery and slaves, from war, poverty, prostitution, vice and crime; would cleanse the sores of our rotting capitalism, would loose the gyves from the fettered hands of mankind, would bid the imprisoned soul of man awake to nobler and to purer things! How? The answer to that would take me weeks. You would have to read and study many books, to learn the entire truth. But I am telling you the substance of the ideal--a realizable ideal, and no chimera--when I say that Socialism sums up all that is good, and banishes all that is evil! And do you wonder that I love and serve it, all my life?" She peered at him in wonder. "You serve it? How?" she demanded. "By spreading it abroad; by speaking for it, working for it, fighting for it! By the spoken and the printed word! By every act and through every means whereby I can bring it nearer and nearer realization!" "You're a dreamer, a visionary, a fanatic!" she exclaimed. "You think so? No, I can't agree. Time will judge that matter. Meanwhile, I travel up and down the earth, spreading Socialism." "And what do you get out of it, personally?" "I? What do you mean? I never thought of that question." "I mean, money. What do you make out of it?" He laughed heartily. "I get a few jail-sentences, once in a while; now and then a crack over the head with a policeman's billy, or maybe a peek down the muzzle of a rifle. I get--" "You mean that you're a martyr?" "By no means! I've never even thought of being called such. This is a privilege, this propaganda of ours. It's the greatest privilege in the world--bringing the word of life and hope and joy to a crushed, bleeding and despairing world!" She thought a moment, in silence. "You're a poet, I believe!" said she. "No, not that. Only a worker in the ranks." "But do you write poetry?" "I write verses. You'd hardly call them poetry!" "Verses? About Socialism?" "Sometimes." "Will you give me some?" "What do you mean?" "Tell me some of them." "Of course not! I can't recite my verses! They aren't worth bothering you with!"