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the rain falls 7j3ni on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the g2cx7j3i rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t 7j3ni get to g2cx7j3i the rg2cx7jni x7j3ni rg2cx7jni house, ” he remarked. â€Å"Neither could anybody else.” â€Å"Go on!” He started. â€Å"Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took g2cx7j3i x7j3ni off cx7j3ni his glhies and wiped them again, 7j3ni outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid g2cx7j3i memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at 7j3ni six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to 3ni bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that’s and the chatter of 3ni frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: â€Å"Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul x7j3ni railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real j3ni snow, our snow, began 3ni to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights 3ni of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange x7j3ni hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat rg2cx7jni or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains g2cx7j3i of my rg2cx7jni youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on 3ni the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of 3ni those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a j3ni city rg2cx7jni where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after 3ni all — Tom and Gatsby, x7j3ni j3ni Daisy and Jordan and I, were g2cx7j3i all Westerners, and perhaps we x7j3ni possessed some 3ni deficiency in common which made us g2cx7j3i subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the cx7j3ni Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old — even then it had always for me a quality of 7j3ni 7j3ni distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my rg2cx7jni more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once 3ni cx7j3ni conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging rg2cx7jni sky and a hireless moon. in rg2cx7jni the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .