With a glass you can see the cow-sheds about its base, and the contented sheep nimbling pebbles in the desert solitudes that surround it, and the tired pigs dozing in the holy calm of its protecting shadow.
Now you wrench your gaze loose, and you look down in front of you and see the broad Pennsylvania Avenue stretching straight ahead for a mile or more till it brings up against the iron fence in front of a pillared granite pile, the Treasury building-an edifice that would command respect in any capital.

The stores and hotels that wall in this broad avenue are mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment.

Beyond the Treasury is a fine large white barn, with wide unhandsome grounds about it.

The President lives there.

It is ugly enough outside, but that is nothing to what it is inside.