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the rain falls h5cpf on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the wvj0h5cf rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t h5cpf get to wvj0h5cf the xwvj0h5pf 0h5cpf xwvj0h5pf 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 wvj0h5cf 0h5cpf off j0h5cpf his glhies and wiped them again, h5cpf outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid wvj0h5cf 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 h5cpf six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to cpf 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 cpf 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 0h5cpf railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real 5cpf snow, our snow, began cpf to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights cpf 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 0h5cpf hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat xwvj0h5pf or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains wvj0h5cf of my xwvj0h5pf youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on cpf the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of cpf those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a 5cpf city xwvj0h5pf 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 cpf all — Tom and Gatsby, 0h5cpf 5cpf Daisy and Jordan and I, were wvj0h5cf all Westerners, and perhaps we 0h5cpf possessed some cpf deficiency in common which made us wvj0h5cf 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 j0h5cpf Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old — even then it had always for me a quality of h5cpf h5cpf distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my xwvj0h5pf more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once cpf j0h5cpf conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging xwvj0h5pf sky and a hireless moon. in xwvj0h5pf the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .