Scribbling on a tavern table, inflamed with love and drink, the great scamp of poets, null Villon, asked: "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" A political observer might be tempted to ask the same question, with some-what less of pathos and something more of irony: "Twenty months ago a struggle for the Presidency commenced. But where are the men, the issues, of that yesteryear? Then was the springtime of political hope. Now is the autumn of political fruition. But where are the snows whence sprang this herbage?"
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