"Golden, golden is the air--" he chanted to the little pools of water.
. . . "Golden is the air, golden notes from golden mandolins, golden
frets of golden violins, fair, oh, wearily fair. . . . Skeins from
braided basket, mortals may not hold; oh, what young extravagant God,
who would know or ask it? . . . who could give such gold. . ."
* * * *
AMORY IS RESENTFUL
Slowly and inevitably, yet with a sudden surge at the last, while Amory
talked and dreamed, war rolled swiftly up the beach and washed the sands
where Princeton played. Every night the gymnasium echoed as platoon
after platoon swept over the floor and shuffled out the basket-ball
markings. When Amory went to Washington the next week-end he caught some
of the spirit of crisis which changed to repulsion in the Pullman car
coming back, for the berths across from him were occupied by stinking
aliens--Greeks, he guessed, or Russians. He thought how much easier
patriotism had been to a homogeneous race, how much easier it would have
been to fight as the Colonies fought, or as the Confederacy fought.
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