Down from the hill rushed the pretty little child, America; -- confidently, naively--toward the bottom of the valley where the stream of Permanent Neutrality flowed along an uncertain course. Along its shore stood the chilled, dripping figures of little European boys, gazing wistfully across. The American child had never tried the stream, but he was sturdy, surely he could jump it at one bound. The poor little foreigners, he was certain, were not strong enough to try; just sissies, always cheating when they played "Cops and Robbers". Brightly he ran up to the bank, jeering at the other despondent children.

Near the edge, sticking up not of the water, was a rock with a big sign on it, saying "Definitions of Aggressors and Victims". Above it hung a limb of a tree; its sign saying "Freedom of The Seas, and Neutrality Rights." It was only a short jump, and the rock looked steady; so he gave a big leap. But the Rock of definitions was slippery with the scum of international Incidents his feet skidded; and he began to fall. Twisting he tried to catch the Limb of Neutral Rights above him. But then he noticed what had not been so clear from the banks; some cracks in that limb,--a pretty good sized one about a hundred and twenty-five years old, and an enormous one about twenty years old; and he knew the limb wouldn't hold. So down into the water he went to try swimming across. Sturdily, since he was a good swimmer with long staying power, he dog-paddled along. Suddenly, he looked to his right, and there rushing down on him was a great big stick of timber. In large, red letters on the side was the label, "Dictatorial Rowers of the President over All Foreign Trade". If another log, called "Export Interests" had not suddenly appeared and bumped the big log away, the little child night have been drowned. As it was the collision of the two caused a foaming wave of Protest, and as his mouth was open in surprise at the suddenness of it all, he swallowed a good part of that wave. It tasted terribly bitter; with it in his stomach he knew that he could swim no further

Gagging and coughing, the little child struggled back to the bank. Graciously shielded behind the willows of Minimum Publicity he sneaked around behind the other huddled children. Wet and chastened from his first encounter, the little child America too huddled despondent, gazing wistfully across, as the tears streamed down his face