THE DAYS OF DAYS

Walt Whitman called it "the Presidential". Woodrow Wilson referred to it as a "great and solemn referendum". The average voter, whoever he may be, looks on it as a recognition of his own importance. The cynic may think it a waste of good time and money, but the patriot leaps to the ballot box with an unholy joy shining in his eye.

According to the rules of the game, the man who fails to vote has no justification for complaining about the result. The conclusion is plain. If one wishes to criticize the government during the next four years (and who would give up that priceless privilege?) voting is the prerequisite. But with the choice one of a sphinx, a knee-breached diplomat, or a great wind there is none who will not be eager to choose.

And who will not rejoice that the hour of hoarse spellbinders has at length passed? Wholesale tilting against windmills is over. Campaign literature can now light the first winter fires; and the much shouted at burger can return to straphanging and the comics. Best of all, the tumult has availed but little. Forty five percent of the voters will vote as their grandfathers did, forty five percent will vote as their husbands dictate, and the other misled ten percent will vote intelligently. Yet it is those few who will make of today another interesting episode in the drama of American life.