A bull-pup is at a disadvantage—socially. His social development is stunted. The malignant wrinkles of his prize-fighter face obstruct his vision. His outlook is restricted. Thus his notion of the world is small. Hence the bull-pup is narrow, local and unsocial. Being socially local and mean—and therefore petty and pugnacious—he enjoys a fight. In the world of dogs he is a tough, a “rough-rider” and a “war-lord.” All other dogs are “foreigners,” “guilty,” and “undesirable citizens.” Peace is too large and fine for the bull-pup. War is “dee-lightful,” “just bully”—for the bull-pup. Thus even the humble dog world is worried and hindered by the socially narrow and pugnaciously strenuous bull-pups—“great” and “successful,” in their estimation. Thus littleness and localism hinder even brutes in their social development. And it is thus in the human world also. Confucius was a great man. But Confucius is hindered—hindered by littleness—little Confucians. Christ? Christ is great, fascinatingly, commandingly great. But Christ is hindered—hindered by the pettiness of pugnacity, hindered by littleness, little Christians. Let us be brothers? Let us have peace? Not yet. We can’t. We must wait. Strange, but true, we must wait for the most reasonable thing in the world—peace. Peace is on the program—next number. From the warring tribes of the long, long ago, up, up, upward to the federated races of the world,—that is the first number on the program—a long steep climb for the human mind, up, up through the hundreds of centuries, a half million years consumed in expanding the human heart, in refining the human affections, in strengthening the social vision to see all the way ’round the world, in widening the diameter of Society, in creating, revising, and re-creating a definition of “Brother,”—the race generating the Social Man, the World Patriot, the International Citizen. The arithmetic of history—Given: Life. To find, or produce, or deduce, the god, the god of aspiring intelligence, the god of a socialized race. A puzzling problem—how to subtract the brute, add the brother and multiply the brains; how to proceed to the next number on the program—Peace; how to move our bruised lips to say: “Put up thy sword. We are of one blood.” We are hindered. Brotherhood and peace—divinely high thought! But, alas! the thought is too high for low-browed strenuosity of the tough-rider type; the thought is too large and fine for the poor brain of a bull-dog or a human bully or a socially blunted holy man or any other breed of stunted runts. The strutting, thin-brained rooster in the farmyard crows, “Hurrah for this our very own dunghill, the finest filth pile on earth.” Thus this spurred and feathered patriot virtuously cultivates his vanity by boisterously challenging “the enemy” in the neighboring farmyards. “Hurrah for our tribe,” screams the savage—patriotically. “Hurrah for our village of Squeedunk,” yells the local human shrimp. More patriotism.