For many a jocund spring has passed away,
And many a flower has blossomed to decay;
And human life, still hastening to a close,
Finds in the worthless dust its last repose.
Still the vain world abounds in strife and hate,
And sire and son provoke each other's fate;
And kindred blood by kindred hands is shed,
And vengeance sleeps not--dies not, with the dead.
All nature fades--the garden's treasures fall,
Young bud, and citron ripe--all perish--all.
--From the Persian.
"The excessive heat of the summer of 1921 made it the first
impulse of travelers to plunge straight into the cool, kindly
ocean, where they could wade and bathe in the surf, sprawl for
hours in the sand, or indulge in races and various games along
the beach."
One is greatly impressed with the vast numbers of resorts on the
Atlantic coast. All along the Jersey shore from Bar Harbor to
Cape May you will find it almost as thickly settled as a town.
Here along this coast an amazing degree of congestion exists.
You will marvel to see all along the beach from Sandy Hook,
fifty miles of crowded street, of hotels, and houses, and behind
these still others. How this vast seaside population thrills
one, bringing visions of the "vastness and wealth of teeming
millions" of this great nation of ours. One author says, and
with truth, that Atlantic City could accommodate all of France
and still have room for more while Asbury Park would furnish
ample room as a seaside resort for Belgium and Holland.
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