YEARS ago a small party of us crossed the Alps into Italy by the Pass on Mount St. Gotthard.
We did not tunnel our way like worms through its dense substance. We surmounted its crest like eagles.
Or, if you please, not at all like eagles: yet assuredly as like those born monarchs as it consisted with our possibilities to become.
To act like an eagle is so far to emulate an eagle. To act by preference like a worm, is voluntarily to discard any shadow of resemblance to its betters.
Better to be the last of eagles than the first of worms.