Nearly the only ideal that is set before these strugglers still toiling in the area, is the one of getting money. A hundred thousand children, the sons and daughters of working parents whose lives are as difficult as that of the Hungarian portrayed and whose homes are as unlovely, are inoculated in infancy with the doctrine that wealth is all,--the shabbiest and most degrading doctrine that can be impressed upon anyone. THE END OF A VACATION It was the close of summer. The great mountain and lake areas to the north of New York were pouring down their thousands into the hot, sun-parched city. Vast throngs were coming back on the steamboats of the Hudson. Vaster throngs were crowding the hourly trains which whirled and thundered past the long lane of villages which stretches between Albany and New York City. The great station at Albany was packed with a perspiring mass. The several fast expresses running without stop to New York City were overwhelmed. Particularly was the Empire State Express full. In the one leaving Albany at eight in the evening passengers were standing in the aisles. It was a little, dark, wolf of a man who fought his way and that of his wife behind him to the car steps, and out of the scrambling, pushing throng rescued a car seat. He put his back against those who were behind and stood still until his wife could crowd in. Then he took his place beside her and looked grimly around. For her part, she arranged herself indifferently and looked wearily out of the window. She was dark, piquant, petite, attractive. [Illustration: The Close of Summer] Behind these two there came another person, who seemed not so anxious for a seat. While others were pushing eagerly he stepped to one side, holding his place close to the little wolf man yet looking indifferently about him. He was young, ruddy, stalwart, an artist’s ideal of what a summer youth ought to be. And now and then he looked in the direction of the wolf man’s wife. But there appeared to be nothing of common understanding between them. The train pulled out with a slow clacking sound. It gained in headway, and lights of yard engines and those of other cars, as well as street lamps and houses, flashed into view and out again. Then came the long darkness of the open country and the river bank, and the people settled to endure the several hours in such comfort as they could. Some read newspapers, some books. The majority stared wearily out of the window, not attempting to talk. They were tired. The joys of their vacations were behind them. Why talk, with New York and early work ahead?