She acted crazy as a loon till she got her way.
She promised if she could have the Hero sleep there, she would build a monument that would tower up to the skies.
[Illustration: If she could have the Hero sleep there, she would build a monument that would tower up to the skies.] The most stupendious, the most impressive work of art that wuz ever wrought by man.
Wall, she got her way.

Why, she cut up so, that she had to have it, seemin'ly.
Wall, did she do as she agreed?
No, indeed.
She had one of her forgetful spells come right on her, a sort of a stupor, I guess, a-follerin' on after a bein' too wild and crazy about gittin' her way.
And anyway, year after year passed, and no monument wuz raised, not a sign of one.

She lied, and she didn't seem to care if she had lied.
There the grave of the Great One wuz onmarked by even a decent memorial, let alone the great one they said they would raise.
And when the Great Ones of the Old World--the renowned in Song and Story and History--when they ariv in New York, most their first thoughts wuz to visit the Grand Tomb of our Hero-- The one who their rulers had delighted to honor--the one who had been welcomed in the dazzlin' halls of their Kings.

And them halls had felt honored to have his shadow rest on 'em as he passed through 'em to audiences with royalty.
They journeyed to that tomb.

Some on 'em had been used to stand by the tombs of their own great dead under the magestic aisles of Westminster Abbey, whose lofty glories dwarfs the human form almost to a pigmy.
Some had stood by the white marble poem of the Tag Megal in India, wherein a royal soul has carved his love for a woman.