WE people infesting this excellent planet emotions of pride in our
victories feel; we put up our buildings of brick and of granite, equip
them with trusses and bastions of steel. Regarding the fruit of our
earnest endeavor, we cheerily boast as we weave through the town: “A
building like that one will stand there forever, for fire can’t destroy
it nor wind blow it down.” Behold, as we’re boasting there falls a dun
shadow; the harvester Death is abroad for his sheaves, and, tumbled and
tossed by the roaring tornado, the man and his building are crumpled
like leaves. And then there are dead men in windrows to shock us, and
scattered and gone are the homes where they died; a pathway of ruin and
wreckage to mock us, and show us how futile and vain is our pride. We’re
apt to, when planning and building and striving, forget we are mortals
and think we are gods; and then when the lord of the tempest is driving,
his wheels break us up with the rest of the clods. Like ants we are
busy, all proud and defiant, constructing a home on the face of the
lawn; and now comes the step of a wandering giant; it crushes our
anthill, and then it is gone.
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