Now Washington is swarming with men of sterling worth, all bent upon
reforming the heaven and the earth; they come from far Savannah, they
come from Texarkana, and points in Indiana, with loud yet seemly mirth.
They're come from far Alaska, where show is heaped on snow; they've
journeyed from Nebraska where commoners do grow; the famed, the wise,
the witty, the timid, and the gritty have come from Kansas City and
also Broken Bow. Their battle shout is thrilling as they go marching
by, and every man is willing at once to bleed and die; to guarantee
this nation a fine Administration he'd take a situation or kill himself
with pie. The editors of journals are marching in the throng; and old
and war-worn colonels are teetering along; and friends of Andrew
Jackson and Jefferson, now waxin' a trifle old, are taxin' their dusty
throats with song. No wonder Woodrow Wilson, as this great crowd
appears, his silken kerchief spills on some proud and grateful tears;
the ranks of colonels face him--such loyalty must brace him, and from
dejection chase him in future pregnant years. No office need go
begging before this mighty host; he need not go a-legging for masters
of the post; he has to do no pleading; they bring the help he's
needing; of dying and of bleeding they make a modest boast. And so he
views the strangers from Maryland and Maine, the tall, bewhiskered
grangers who till the Western plain; the men from desks and foyers, the
sheepmen and the sawyers, the lumberjacks and lawyers, all come to ease
the strain; he views the dusty millers from Minnesota land; the shining
social pillars from Boston's sacred strand; the men of hill and valley
around his standard rally (and on the snaps keep tally), each with a
helping hand. "My fears are in the distance," is Woodrow's grateful
song; "what foe can make resistance against this mighty throng? So let
us, lawyer, farmer, ex-plute, and social charmer, gird on our
snow-white armor, and paralyze each wrong!"