The football is money. See how the mass rushes after it! Everyone so intent upon his pursuit until all else dwindles into a ridiculous nonentity. The weaker ones go down in the mad pursuit, and are unmercifully trampled upon, but no matter, what is the difference if the foremost win the coveted prize and carry it off. See the big boy in front, he with iron grip, and determined, compressed lips? That boy is a type of the big, merciless man, the Gradgrind of the latter century. His face is set towards the ball, and even though he may crush a dozen small boys, he'll make his way through the mob and come out triumphant. And he'll be the victor longer than anyone else, in spite of the envy and fighting and pushing about him. To an observer, alike unintelligent about the rules of a football game, and the conditions which govern the barter and exchange and fluctuations of the world's money market, there is as much difference between the sight of a mass of boys on a play-ground losing their equilibrium over a spheroid of rubber and a mass of men losing their coolness and temper and mental and nervous balance on change as there is between a pine sapling and a mighty forest king--merely a difference of age. The mighty, seething, intensely concentrated mass in its emphatic tendency to one point is the same, in the utter disregard of mental and physical welfare. The momentary triumphs of transitory possessions impress a casual looker-on with the same fearful idea--that the human race, after all, is savage to the core, and cultivates its savagery in an inflated happiness at own nearness to perfection. But the bell clangs sharply, the overheated, nervous, tingling boys fall into line, and the sudden transition from massing disorder to military precision cuts short the ten minutes' musing. A PLAINT. Dear God, 'tis hard, so awful hard to lose The one we love, and see him go afar, With scarce one thought of aching hearts behind, Nor wistful eyes, nor outstretched yearning hands. Chide not, dear God, if surging thoughts arise. And bitter questionings of love and fate, But rather give my weary heart thy rest, And turn the sad, dark memories into sweet. Dear God, I fain my loved one were anear, But since thou will'st that happy thence he'll be, I send him forth, and back I'll choke the grief Rebellious rises in my lonely heart. I pray thee, God, my loved one joy to bring; I dare not hope that joy will be with me, But ah, dear God, one boon I crave of thee, That he shall ne'er forget his hours with me. IN UNCONSCIOUSNESS.