“It seems to me I live.”
“Now listen! Listen to me!” she said, emphatically.
“You make me sick.
Where do they get yuh, your the’ries and your ideas?
Nowhere!
Live, kid, – live!
What’d become of all of us sons-of-bitches,
if we stopped to argue out every step we took?
Stick down to earth.”
Brush looked at her with furrowed brow and said in a low voice,
“It seems to me I live.”
* * * * * * * * * *
George Brush is my name;
America’s my nation;
Ludington’s my dwelling place
And Heaven’s my destination.
(Doggerel which children of the Middle West were accustomed to write in their schoolbooks.)