198 BIRDS AND POETS 
less than a minute is sound and peacefully asleep 
without another whimper, utterly fagged out. A 
square or so more and the conductor, who has had 
an unusually hard and uninterrupted day’s work, 
gets off for his first meal and relief since morning, 
And now the white-hatted man, holding the slum- 
bering babe, also acts as conductor the rest of the 
distance, keeping his eye on the passengers inside, 
who have by this time thinned out greatly. He 
makes a very good conductor, too, pulling the bell 
to stop or go on as needed, and seems to enjoy 
the occupation. The babe meanwhile rests its fat 
cheeks close on his neck and gray beard, one of his 
arms vigilantly surrounding it, while the other sig- 
nals, from time to time, with the strap; and the 
flushed mother inside has a good half hour to breathe, 
and cool, and recover herself. 
II 
No poem of our day dates and locates itself as 
absolutely as “Leaves of Grass;” but suppose it 
had been written three or four centuries ago, and 
had located itself in medieval Europe, and was now 
first brought to light, together with a history of 
Walt Whitman’s simple and disinterested life, can 
there be any doubt about the cackling that would at 
once break out in the whole brood of critics over 
.the golden egg that had been uncovered? This I 
reckon would be a favorite passage with all: — 
“Yousea! I resign myself to you also —I guess what you meanj 
® behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers; 
