A Cosmopolite in a Café Part-4

Cairo, Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year round. I've
got slippers waiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai, and I don't
have to tell 'em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle.
It's a mighty little old world. What's the use of bragging about
being from the North, or the South, or the old manor-house in
the dale, or Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, or Pike's Peak, or Fairfax
County, Va., or Hooligan's Flats or any place? It'll be a better
world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten
acres of swampland just because we happened to be born there.'
'You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite,' I said admiringly. 'But
it also seems that you would decry patriotism.'
'A relic of the stone age,' declared Coglan warmly. 'We are all
brothers - Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians, and the
people in the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride
in one's city or state or section or country will be wiped out, and
we'll all be citizens of the world, as we ought to be.'
'But while you are wandering in foreign lands,' I persisted, 'do
not your thoughts revert to some spot - some dear and - '
'Nary a spot,' interrupted E. R. Coglan flippantly. 'The terrestrial,
globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the
poles, and known as the Earth, is my abode. I've met a good many
object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I've seen men from
Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag
about their drainage canal. I've seen a Southerner on being introduced
to the King of England hand that monarch, without batting
his eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother's side
was related by marriage to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a
New Yorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan
bandits. His people sent over the money and he came back to
Kabul with the agent. "Afghanistan?" the natives said to him
through an interpreter. "Well, not so slow, do you think?" "Oh, I
don't know," says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab-driver
at Sixth Avenue and Broadway. Those ideas don't suit me. I'm not
tied down to anything that isn't 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put
me down as E. Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere.'
My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought
that he saw someone through the chatter and smoke whom he
knew. So I was left with the would-be periwinkle, who was reduced
to Würzburger without further ability to voice his aspirations to
perch, melodious, upon the summit of a valley.
I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering
how the poet had managed to miss him. He was my discovery and