THe Mature Movement 
I was hurrying across Boston Common. Two or three 
hundred others were hurrying with me. But ahead, at 
the union of several paths, was a crowd, standing still. 
I kept hurrying on, not to join the crowd, but simply 
to keep up the hurry. The crowd was not standing 
still, it was a-hurrying, too, scattering as fast as it 
gathered, and as it scattered I noticed that it wore a 
smile, I hastened up, pushed in, as I had done a score 
of times on the Common, and got my glimpse of the 
show. It was not a Mormon preaching, not a single- 
taxer, not a dog fight. It was Billy, a gray squirrel, 
taking peanuts out of a bootblack’s pocket. And every 
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