curious about the millionaires who died than about the paupers who died. I'm not drawing lines on heroes. I'm not worrying about heroes anyway. I'm thinking of people. My heart is drawn to people. It dont hurt what they wear. Let them wear velvet or canvas. Do you suppose I care whether they're bad or good? Rich or poor, they're people. Every man belongs somewhere in the crowd. Do you suppose I care whether he's at the top or the bottom? When the boat went to pot people went with it. Some because they had to. Some because they chose to. I cant separate the heroes from the cowards. So I accept them all as people. When I read of the fifty engineers that perished I felt as if fifty gods had been snuffed out. People talk of a man or two or of a few dozen men as if their death was only a soso bit of news. To me dying seems sense enough. I can see how we might get used to dying and enjoy it. But we shouldn't waste people. Our civilization is jealous of property and prodigal of people. I cant see such waste with equanimity. I want to save people. There's such use for people. They are so precious. They are our brothers. I want my brothers. I dont like you to drown them cruelly in the sea. I dont want you to destroy them in railroad disasters. I hate your wars. They rob me of my people. What do I care about your balance in bank? One man's life is worth all balances in bank. Even a mean man's life? Yes. Any man's life. I pass the derelicts on the street. They are thrown aside. They have no right in the stream. If they raise a protest they are called to order. The police tell them to move on. And the priests do too. And the statesmen. The stores and the factories say move on. There's no place for them to rest. They're hounded across the earth. So the engineers perished. No one said much about it. They took the engineers for granted. Did they take anyone else for granted? They always take the poor for granted. They expect them to be heroes. And they expect them to die without a growl. If they growl they are in a panic. If they say: You die too, they are ungrateful. If they refuse to die they are set down for cowards. Or maybe killed. They do die. They are sacrificed everywhere. They give up their lives for everybody and for each other. Trainmen. Sailors. Soldiers. They are all set up to be shot at or starved. The women who scrub the floors. The mothers who wash our clothes. They die for us. These engineers died for us. Fifty-three of them. Gods who kept a world moving. Gods who stood by the law. Laborers keep our world going. They're always dying for us. Dying for everybody. With no decoration. No medals or shoulder straps. Their names dont get into the papers. They get no hero badges. Poems are not written to them. No one says: He died like a gentleman. No. Laborers are so busy dying like men they have no time to die like gentlemen. They just get a little line or two when the time comes. All the engineers perished. That sort of a line.