hear my cry, o god the reader; vouchsafe that this my book fall not still-born into the world wilderness. let there spring, gentle one, from out its leaves vigor of thought and thoughtful deed to reap the harvest wonderful. let the ears of a guilty people tingle with truth, and seventy millions sigh for the righteousness which exalteth nations, in this drear day when human brotherhood is mockery and a snare. thus in thy good time may infinite reason turn the tangle straight, and these crooked marks on a fragile leaf be not indeed