When all the humans look like caterpillars to any one human, the trouble is with that one’s viewpoint. From an aeroplane, even the Himalayas look like anthills. Come down from your remote altitude and lose yourself in the beautiful, glorious psychic of the crowd—be one of them, and see what you will find! THE LITTLE REVIEW proclaims itself bent on the adventure of beauty. Is there any beauty like that of the “sad, sweet music of humanity?” What is the glow of the most gorgeous sunset ever splashed against the western skies beside the glow of the divine in the human which hurls itself upon you—and _into_ you if you will let it—in a thousand beseeching, inviting, intoxicating flames from the midst of any crowd? But only, of course, if you are _in_ the midst. Is there any adventure like the “adventure of being human”—and _with_ humans? and _of_ them? Go with Whitman into the heart of humanity—struggle _with_ them—not from far above them—to lift from off their backs the crushing weight of wealth and masters and idle snobs and false gods so that they may get _room_ to spread their wings—for they _have_ wings, and then you will know them as they are, and yourself but as one of them. If some of them still try to clip the wings of those who have struggled free from the crushing pressure, it is because of the maddening agony of their own atrophying wings. If a few seem even to be unaware of the need for wings, it is because the clamor of more insistent needs—the cries of hungry children, of bruised and broken and unsatisfied men and of suffering and degraded women—has silenced for every shame their own soul’s wing-cry. But I think that you will find that those who perform the wing-clipping are the other butterflies whom money or position or callousness has set above the people—not those who are really of the crowd. They of the crowd _love_ wings, and those who truly use them.