I suppose, etymologically, it is a nest of turtle-doves, Lat. columba, a dove. Coo me softly, then, Columbia; don’t roar me like the sucking doves of the critics of my “Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious.”

And when I lay this little book at the foot of the Liberty statue, that brawny lady is not to look down her nose and bawl: “Do you see any green in my eye?” Of course I don’t, dear lady. I only see the reflection of that torch — or is it a carrot? — which you are holding up to light the way into New York harbor. Well, many an ass has strayed across the uneasy paddock of the Atlantic, to nibble your carrot, dear lady. And I must say, you can keep on slicing off nice little carrot-slices of guineas and doubloons for an extraordinarily inexhaustible long time.