<*■**• — tBfi S5*» WHEN YOU WER A BOY Jfl .■■:■-■■.■■•■■,■. •■■•■'■■■■:;■■■■ '.■.: : : •■'■•" ' ■'■■'■■'"■ • • ■■■•■■.■■■''..■■■••. EDWIN L.SABIN w Id faw Ala v-Uu^ Qsho- 1 ~~~ WHEN YOU WERE A BOY WHEN YOU WERE A BOY BY EDWIN L. SABIN WITH PICTURES BY FREDERIC DORR STEELE Beto gork THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 33-37 East 17TH Street, Union Square (North) Copyright, 1905, by The Baker & Taylor Company Published October, 1905 The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 4f OR permission to republish the following 3' sketches the author is gratefully indebted to the Century Magazine, the Saturday Evening Post, Everybody's Magazine, and the National Magazine. M13739 CONTENTS r PAGE I TVze Match Game n II Yon at School 39 III Chums 65 IV In the Arena 91 V The Circus 11 1 VI When Yon Ran Away .... 135 VII Go in 1 Fishin? 155 VIII In Society 179 IX Middleton's Hill 195 X Goin? Swimmin 1 219 XI The Sunday-School Picnic . . 239 XII The Old Muzzle-Loader . . . 257 XIII A Boy's Loves 277 XIV Noon 297 THE MATCH GAME "YOU" WHEN YOU WERE A BOY THE MATCH GAME "our" nine Billy Lunt, c Fat Day, p Hen Schmidt, ib Bob Leslie, 2b Hod O'Shea, 3b Chub Thornbury, ss Nixie Kemp, If Tom Kemp, rf "You," cf. We: They: 5 11 9 14 " THEIR " NINE Spunk Carey, c Doc Kennedy, p Screw Major, ib Ted Watson, 2b Red Conroy, 3b Slim Harding, ss Pete Jones, if Tug McCormack, rf Ollie Hansen, cf 9 8-31 9 i6 — 5° FAT DAY was captain and pitcher. He was captain because, if he was not, he wouldn't play, and inasmuch as he owned the ball, this would have been disastrous; and he was pitcher because he was captain. In the North Stars were other pitchers — seven of them! The only member who did not aspire to pitch was Billy Lunt, and as When You Were a Bo y catcher he occupied a place, in "takin' 'em off the bat," too delightfully hazardous for him to surrender, and too painful for anybody else to covet. The organization of the North Stars was effected through verbal contracts somewhat as follows: "Say, we want you to be in our nine." "All right. Will you lemme pitch?" "Naw; Fat's pitcher, 'cause he's captain; but you can play first." "Pooh! Fat can't pitch — " "I can, too. I can pitch lots better'n you can, anyhow." (This from Fat himself.) "W-well, I'll play first, then. . I don't care." Thus an adjustment was reached. A proud moment for you was it when your merits as a ball-player were recognized, and you were engaged for center-field. Of course, secretly you nourished the strong conviction [12] When You Were a Boy that you were cut out for a pitcher. Next to pitcher, you preferred short-stop, and next to short-stop, first base. But these positions, and pretty much everything, in fact, had been pre- empted; so, after the necessary haggling, you accepted center-field. Speedily the Xorth Star make-up was com- plete, and disappointed applicants — those too little, too big, too late, or not good enough — were busy sneering about it. The equipment of the North Star Base-Ball Club consisted of Fat's "regular league" ball, six bats (owned by various members, and in some cases exercising no small influence in de- termining fitness of the billy lunt same for enlistment as recruits), and four uni- forms. Mother made your uni- form. To-day you won- der how, amidst darning your stockings and patch- ing your trousers and mending your waists, she ever found time in which to supply you with the [13] When You Were a Boy additional regalia which, according to your pursuits of the hour, day after day you insistently demanded. But she always did. The uniform in question was composed of a pair of your linen knickerbockers with a red tape tacked along the outside seam, and a huge six-pointed blue flannel star, each point having a buttonhole where- by it was attached to a button, corresponding, on the breast of your waist. And was there a cap, or did you wear the faithful old straw? Fat Day, you recollect, had a cap upon the front of which was lettered his rank — "Captain." It seems as though mother made you a cap, as well as the striped trousers and breastplate. The cap was furnished with a tremendously deep vizor of pasteboard, and was formed of four segments, two white and two blue, meeting in the center of the crown. [14] SPUNK CAREY When You Were a Boy All in all, the uniform was perfectly satis- factory; it was distinctive, and was surpassed by none of the other three. Evidently the mothers of five of the Xorth Stars did not attend to business, for their sons played in ordinary citizen's attire of hats, and of waists and trousers unadorned save by the stains incidental to daily life. The North Stars must have been employed for a time chiefly in parading about and seeking whom they, as an aggregation, might devour, but as a rule failing, owing to interfering house- and-yard duties, all to report upon any one occasion. The contests had been with "picked nines," "just for fun" (mean- hex schmidt ing that there was no sting in defeat), when on a sudden it was breathlessly announced from mouth to mouth that "the Second-street kids want to play us." ' ' Come on ! " responded, with a single valiant voice, the North Stars. "We're goin' to play a match game next Tuesday," [is] When You Were a Boy you gave out, as a bit of important news, at the supper- table. "That so?" hazarded father, who had been flatter- ingly interested in your blue star. "Who's the other nine?" "The Second-street fellows. Spunk Carey's captain and — " "Who is Spunk Carey? Oh, Johnny, what outlandish "^ names you boys do rake up!" exclaimed mother. "Why, he's Frank Carey the hardware man's boy," explained father, indulgently. "What's his first name, John?" "I dunno," you hurriedly owned; "Spunk" had been quite sufficient for all purposes. "But we're goin' to play in the vacant lot next to Carey's house. There's a dandy diamond." So there was. The Carey side fence supplied a fine back-stop, and thence the grounds ex- tended in a superb level of dusty green, broken by burdock clumps and interspersed with tin cans. The lot was bounded on the east by the Carey fence, on the south and west by a high [16] CHUB THORNBURY When You Were a Boy walk, and on the north by the alley. It was a corner lot, which made it the more spacious. The diamond itself had been laid out, in the beginning, with proportions accommodated to a pair of rocks that would answer for first and second base; a slab dropped where third ought to be, and another dropped for the home plate, finished the preliminary work, and thereafter scores of running feet, shod and unshod, had worn bare the lines, and the spots where stood pitcher, catcher, and batter. A landscape architect might have passed criticism on the ensemble of the plat, and a surveyor might have taken exceptions to the configuration of the diamond, but who cared? "We" had promised that ^ "we" would be there, ready to play, at two o'clock, and "they" had solemnly vowed that "they" would be as prompt. Tuesday's dinner you gulped and gobbled; in those days your stomach was patient and charitable almost [17] DOC KENNEDY When You Were a Boy " ! beyond belief in this degenerate present. It was imperative that you be at Carey's lot immedi- ately, and despite the im- ploring objections of the family to your reckless haste, you bolted out; and as you went you drew upon your left hand an old fingerless kid glove, which was of some peculiar service in your cen- ter-field duties. Your uniform had been put on upon arising that morning. You always wore it nowadays except when in bed or on Sundays. It was your toga of the purple border, and the bat that you carried from early to late, in your peregri- nations, was your scepter mace. At your unearthly yodel, from next door rushed out your crony, Hen Schmidt, and joined you; and upon your way to the vacant lot you picked up Billy Lunt and Chub Thorn bury. The four of you succeeded in all talking at once: the Second-streets were great big fellows; their pitcher was Doc Kennedy and it wasn't [18] RED CONROY When You Were a Boy fair, because he threw as hard as he could, and he was nearly sixteen; Hop Hopkins said he'd be "empire"; Red Conroy was going to play, and he always was wanting to fight ; darn it — if Fat only wouldn't pitch, but let somebody else do it! Bob Leslie could throw an awful big "in," etc. The fateful lot dawned upon the right, around the corner of an alley fence. Hurrah, there they are ! You see Nixie and Tom Kemp, and Hod O'Shea, and Bob Leslie, and Spunk, and Screw Major, and Ted Watson, and Slim Hard- ing, and the redoubtable Red Conroy (engaged in bullying a smaller boy), and others who must be the remainder of the Second- streets. " Hello, kids," you say, and likewise say your three com- panions; and with bat trail- ing you stalk with free and easy dignity into the crowd. "Where's Fat? Who's seen Fat?" asked every- body of everybody; for Cap- tain Fat was the sole essential [19] OLLIE HANSEN When You Were a Bo y personage lacking. However, even without him, pending his arrival the scene was one of stirring animation. Thick and fast flew here and there the several balls on the grounds, each nine keeping to itself, and each boy throwing " curves" — or, at least, thus essaying. You yourself, brave in your splendor of blue star and red stripe, endeavored, by now and then negligently catching with one hand, to make it plain that you were virtually a professional. The Second-streets were as yet ununiformed, even in sec- tions. But they were a rugged, rough-and-ready set, and two of them had base-ball shoes on, proving that they were experts. "Here's Fat! Here comes Fat!" suddenly arose the welcoming cry; and appareled in his regimentals, his cap announcing to all beholders his high rank, panting, hot, perspiring, up hustled the leader of the North Stars. [20] BOB LESLIE When You Were a Boy It was time to begin. "Who's got a ball?" demanded Umpire Hopkins, sometimes called Harry, but more generally known as Hop or Hoptoad. The query disclosed a serious condition. Balls there were, but not suitable for a cham- pionship match game. They were ten- and fifteen-centers, as hard as grapeshot or already knocked flabby. " Where's your ball, Fat?" you asked in- cautiously. "In my pocket," admitted Fat — a bulging fact that he could not well pete jones deny. "What is it? Le' 's see, Fat," demanded Captain Spunk. "It'sa regular dollar league," you informed glibly; and Fat, with mingled pride and reluctance, extracted it from the pocket of his knickerbockers, — peeled it, so to speak, into the open, — and handed it out for in- spection. [21] When You Were a Boy A>. "Gee!" commented Spunk, thumbing it, and chucking it up and catching it. "It's a dandy! Come on, kids; here's a ball!" "But if you use my ball, you've got to give us our outs," bargained Fat, dismayed. "G'wan!" growled Red Conroy. "Don't you do it, Spunk. 'Tain't goin' to hurt his old ball any." Awed by the ever-belliger- ent Red, Fat submitted to the customary lot by bat. Spunk tossed a bat at him, and he H caught it, with an elaborate show of method, about the middle; then with alternate hands they proceeded to cover it upward to the end. The last hand for which there was space was Fat's; by no manner of means could Spunk squeeze his grimy fist into the two inches left. "We'll take our outs," majestically asserted Captain Fat; whereat whooped shrilly all the North Stars, and quite regardless of their affilia- tions whooped shrilly the spectators also, com- [22] When You Were a Boy SCREW MAJOR posed of small brothers and a few friends about equally divided between the contestant nines. Some preliminaries were yet to be gone through with. Doc Kennedy was protested because he pitched so swift. " Aw, / won't throw hard," he assured bluffly. "Of course not! He's easy to hit," chorused his companions. Then, in view of the fact that Billy Lunt had a sore finger, as evidenced by a cylinder of whitish rag (which he slipped off, obligingly, whenever solicited), it was agreed that he be allowed to catch the third strike on the first bounce. A foul over the back-stop fence was out; a like penalty was attached to flies over the boundary walks. And now, turning hand- springs and otherwise gambol- ing exultantly, the North Stars scattered to their respective positions. Away out in center-field you prepared to guard your territory. You bent over, with [23] When You Were a Boy your hands upon your knees, and ever and anon you spat fiercely, sometimes upon the ground and sometimes into your kid glove. This was the performance of the play- ers upon the town's nine, the Red Stockings, and evi- dently greatly added to their efficiency. Besides, on the edge of the walk just back of you were sitting and swinging their slim legs two little girls, whom it was pleasant to impress. Overhead the sun was blazing hot, but not to you ; underfoot the dust from a long dry spell lay choking thick, but not to you; a "darning-needle" whizzed past, and you scarcely ducked, although he might be bent upon sewing up your ears. Your work was too stern to admit of your noticing sun, or dust, or mischievous dragon-fly. So you spat into your glove, replaced your hands on your knees, and waited. [24] TED WATSON When You Were a Boy SLIM HARDING " Hello, Johnny!" piped one of the little girls; but you deigned not to make answer. To right and to left were the Kemp boys, with their hands upon their knees; and before were the infielders, with their hands likewise upon their knees; that is, all except the pitcher. " Play ball!" gruffly bade the umpire. Captain Spunk advanced to the slab. "Gimme a low ball," he ordered, sticking out his bat to indicate the proper height that would meet his wishes. Captain Fat rolled the ball rapidly between his palms, and thus having im- parted to it what he fondly believed was a mysterious twist, hurled it. "One ball!" cried the umpire. Captain Spunk banged the slab with his bat. "Aw, gimme a low ball over the plate!" he urged. [25] When You Were a Boy *HSW* Again the pitcher rubbed twist into the sphere, and out in center-field you hung upon his motions. u One strike!" declared the umpire, and a great shout of derision arose from the North Stars and their adherents. Captain Fat smiled wick- edly : the unfortunate batter ^ was being fooled by those deceptive curves. "What did you strike at that fer — 'way up over yer head!" censured Red Con- roy, angrily. "Darn it! gimme a good low ball! You're 'fraid to!" challenged Captain Spunk. Whack! He had hit it. Right between Short-stop Chub's legs it darted, and you and left-field together stopped it, but too late to prevent the runner's reaching first. Chub came in for a tongue-lashing from all sides; and then Spunk stole second, and Billy threw over Bob's head there (at the same time throwing the rag cylinder, also, half-way to the pitcher's box), and you desperately fielded the [26] I'M ^ *> TOM KEMP When You Were a Boy ball in, and Fat got it, and threw over Hod's head at third, and to the wild cries of "Home! Home! Sock her home!" Nixie got it and threw it at Billy; but nevertheless Spunk, spurred on by the frantic exhortations of his fellows, panting " Tally one!" crossed the slab. Triumphantly cheered the Second-streets, and busily flashed the jack-knife of each spectator as he cut a tally-notch in a stick. Billy ran forward and reclaimed his precious rag. NIXIE KEMP Ten more tallies were recorded before the half-inning closed. The whole North Star nine was red from running after the ball and disputing with the umpire — disputes into which everybody on the ground had earnestly en- tered. Red Conroy had threatened to "smash" sev- eral North Stars, you among them; Catcher Billy had long since witnessed his cylinder trampled into the diamond and ruined; Cap- tain Fat had tried all the most deadly twists E*7] When You Were a Boy in his repertoire ; when, finally, hot and irritated, you and yours had come in. And now, reminding Pitcher Doc that he had promised not to throw hard, Billy stepped to the plate, to hit, to reach first, daringly to steal second, foolishly to be caught between bases, successfully to dash past Red, who endeavored to trip him, and out of the confusion safely to attain third, whence soon he galloped home, and tallied. "'Leven to five!" declared the sprawling spectators, every one a score-keeper, to each other, as at last in scampered the Second-streets and out lagged the North Stars. You had not batted, and you were relieved, because batting was a great responsibility, with your critical fellows advising you, and casti- gating you whenever you missed. In this their next inning the Second-streets made fourteen! Notwithstanding Fat's utmost art, as signified by his various occult motions, they batted him only too easily, and kept infield and outfield chasing all over the lot. Yet he angrily refused to "let somebody else pitch." Bob Leslie even attempted to take the ball away from him and forcibly trade places — a [28] When You Were a Boy mutiny which called forth an "Aw, g'wan an' play ball, you kids!" from the waiting batter, Screw Major. "Why don't you fellows stop some of them grounders, then?" retorted Fat to derogatory accusations. "Gee whiz! You don't stop nothin'!" Thus it resolved into a question of whether 't was not stopping, or having o'ermuch to stop, that brought disaster. It was your turn. Your faced the mighty Doc. He threw, and the ball came like a cannon-shot, you thought. "You're throwin' swift!" you remonstrated. " Shut up ! " sneered Red, from third. "Who's a-throwin' swift? Give him one in the head, Doc!" Blindly you struck, and the condemnations of your mentors squatting anear raked you fore and aft. Quite unexpectedly you hit it. You did not know where it went, but you scudded for first. ' ' Second ! Second ! ' ' gesticulating frantically, bawled all your companions, coaching you on- ward. [29] When You Were a Boy "Second! Second!" bawled with equal fer- vor your opponents, coaching the fielder. You grabbed off your cap, — it is strange how much faster a boy can run when thus as- sisted, — and madly dug for second. Praise be! There you were, beating the ball, which appeared from a mysterious somewhere, by a hair's-breadth. You stuck to second, meanwhile dancing and prancing to tantalize the pitcher, until another hit forwarded you to third, for which you slid, not because it was absolutely necessary to slide, but because the slide was a part of the game. Here, at third, while you were dreaming of the home slab, and the honor of admonishing, hoarsely, for the information of the world, "Tally me!" Red, the ruthless, abruptly gave you a shove, hurling you from position. "Quick, Doc!" he cried. Doc responded with the ball. "Out!" decreed the umpire. "But he shoved me! He shoved me off the base!" you shrieked. " Who shoved yer ? I didn't, neither! G'wan! Yer out; don't you hear the empire?" snarled back Red. [30] When You Were a Boy "You did, too!" you asserted. "He did, too! No fair! He shoved him like everything!" vociferated all the North Stars and their supporters. "You're out! You're out!" gibed the Second- streets, from catcher to farthest fielder. "Out!" majestically pronounced the umpire again. Slowly, obedient to the higher authority repre- sented in the freckled-faced Hoptoad, you walked down the base-line. In some way, ap- parently, you had disgraced your blue star, begrimed from your manful slide, for "Why did you let him touch you?" accused your comrades. The idea! How could you help it, you'd like to know. It was the first half of the fifth inning. The score, according to the notches on the sticks, was fifty to thirty-one, in favor of the Second- streets. Those spectators who had exercised the forethought to start with long sticks were in clover, while those with short sticks were having hard work to find space for all the runs. The sun was not so high as when the game [31] When You Were a Boy began, neither were your spirits. Much excited chasing, and much strenuous yelling, had told upon you. Your face was streaked; your hair was in dank disorder; your blue star flapped, and your waistband sagged behind, mourning for departed buttons. You were what mothers style "a perfect sight." The air had been rent by incessant wran- glings. Tom Kemp and Screw Major had in- dulged in a brief rough-and-tumble, because Screw had thought that Tom had purposely trodden upon his sore toe, Screw injudiciously being barefoot. Every member of the North Stars had com- mitted egregious errors, and had been tartly excoriated by all hands. You yourself had muffed, and had thrown the ball seven ways for Sunday. Fat was still doggedly clinging to pitch, and Doc was throwing swift. The two little girls, once your admirers, had gone away in disgust. And the score, as remarked above, was fifty to thirty-one. Tug McCormack it was who picked out one of Fat's wonderful twisters and batted it over your head. After it you raced, deliriously dis- [32] When You Were a Boy carding, of course, your sadly abused cap, that you might gain in speed. Behind you bellowed friends and enemies, and around the bases was pelting Tug. Where was the ball — oh, where was it ! It must have struck a can or stick, and bounded crooked. " Hurry! Hurry!" exhorted the Second- streets to Tug. "Home! Home! Home with it!" exhorted the North Stars to you. "Pick it up now and look for it afterward!" yelled second base. "What's the matter with you? It's right there!" yelled Captain Fat. "Darn it! Ain't you got eyes?" yelled left- field, and "You darned fool!" yelled right-field, converging from each side. "Lost ball!" you screamed, tramping hither and thither to show that you spoke truth. "Lost ball!" screamed the Kemp brothers. "Lost ball! Lo-o-ost ba-a-all!" chimed in the North Stars generally. But Tug had scored. "No fair!" objected Billy Lunt. "He's got to go back to second. Lost ball! Don't you hear? Lost ball!" [33] When You Were a Boy "I don't care. 'Tain't my fault," confuted Tug. "Course not!" said Captain Spunk, scorn- fully. "But you can't come in on a lost ball; can he, Hop?" appealed Billy to the umpire. " Shut up ! What yer talkin' about ? Course he can," affirmed Red. "Shut up yourself!" hotly bade Billy. " You aren't runnin' the game. Can he, Hop?" "I dunno!" confessed Umpire Hop, digging with his toe at a mound of dirt. " Ya-a-a-a-ah ! " sneered Red at the discom- fited Billy. "Well, he can't just the samee!" resolved Captain Fat. "It's my ball." "Just the samee, he can!" contradicted Cap- tain Spunk. "It's my father's lot." "Lost ball! Lo-o-ost ba-a-all!" you and Nixie and Tom had been calling as unceasingly as the tolling of a bell; and continuing the dis- cussion, which abated never, the members of both nines, and the spectators, who also were the score-keepers, scattered over the ground to assist in the search. It seemed that no effort or artifice, even to [34] When You Were a Boy lying down and rolling where the weeds were thick, could bring to light that ball, until sud- denly piped little Jamie Watson: "Red Conroy's runnin' off!" "He's got it, I bet you! Hey! Stop, thief!" hailed Tom, quickly. "Drop that ball! Stop, thief!" swelled the chorus. But down the alley legged Red, and disap- peared over a fence. Evidently he had "got it." "Wait till I catch him!" promised Fat, in deep, wrathful tones. You ought to have been very tired that even- ing at the supper-table, but you were not, for in those days you never were tired, save momen- tarily. However, you still were green and brown in spots that your hurried washing had not touched, and dusty in other sections that your equally hurried brushing had omitted. Your face was as red as a setting sun, and you were full of experiences — a fulness that did not in the slightest impair your appetite. "Who beat?" had inquired mother, as you had come trudging in. [35l When You Were a Boy "We only played four innin's, and they were fifty and we were thirty-one, and then Red Conroy stole the ball," you explained. "Well, who beat?" asked father, at the table. "Nobody did," you stated, this solution hav- ing occurred to you. "We didn't finish, 'cause Red Conroy he ran off with the ball." "But what was the score when this hap- pened?" pursued father. "Fifty to thirty-one — but it was only four innings," you answered, with a wriggle. "And who made the fifty?" persisted father, ignoring mother's warning frown. "They — they did, "you blurted; and then you hastened to add, "But they're lots bigger'n us." 'W v 'I %^9i] When You Were a Boy "Pooh! We don't mind, do we?" you affirm, employing a delightful plural. "Uh-uh," agrees Lucy. Beatific silence thenceforth encompassed your route until the Rogers front gate was reached. "Good-night!" piped Lucy, scampering for the door. "Good-night!" cried you, running deliriously down the street. And the next day all the boys in town pes- tered you with their teasing: "Aw, John! went home with a girl!" and you find " John Walker is Lucy Roger's beau," chalked upon horse- blocks and walks and gate-posts. [IQ2] MIDDLETON'S HILL MIDDLETON'S HILL LL night those new and cher- ished acquisitions, your cop- per toed boots, had served patient sentry-duty beside your peaceful couch, now wistfully to wonder why their lord and master did not awaken and see what had happened. The rising-bell summoned you, but you only protested, blind, and snuggled for another snooze. ' ' Snowing, John ! Get up ! " called father. "Scrape, scrape," came to your ears the warning of an early shovel. Your heart gave a wild hurrah, open popped your eyes, to the floor you floundered, to the window you staggered. Sure enough! The sill was heaped to the lower panes, and in the air the flakes were as thick as swarming bees. [•95] ' CLEAR THE TRACK"' When You Were a Boy Ecstatically alive, you hustled on your clothes, bestowed on face and hair a cold lick and a hasty promise, and in the copper-toed boots (eager for the fray) raced noisily down the stairs. You found the household less exhilarated and enthusiastic than you had expected. "Well, this is a snowstorm!" commented mother, in a blank way, pouring the coffee. "Um-m-m! You bet!" you mumbled. "It's good for all day, I guess," said father, solemnly, sipping from his cup as he gazed out. "Oh, dear! Do you think so?" sighed mother, aghast. "Oh, gee! I hope so!" sighed you, fervently. "Shouldn't wonder if we had a foot or more, by night," continued father. You heard him rapturously. Father knew — but it seemed almost too good ! Fourteen buckwheat cakes were all that you could allow yourself, this morning. The snow needed you; and grabbing cap and scarf and mittens, with a battle-cry of defiance and joy you rushed, by the back door, into the furious vortex. The crackling stove, the cheery carpet, the warm, balmy, comfortable atmosphere of indoors appealed not to you. [i 9 6] When You Were a Boy First, exultantly you dragged forth for a preliminary canter your faithful sled, long since extricated from summer quarters and held in readiness for action. The snow proved satis- factory. " Ain't this dandy!" you shouted through the '"AIN'T THIS DANDY'" driving flakes, across from chores in your back yard to Hen at chores in his back yard. "You bet you!" agreed Hen. So it was, for boys; and Madam Nature, hovering anxiously near, knew that her efforts were appreciated. "Won't the hill be bully, thoM" you jubi- lated. [ J 97] When You Were a Boy "Gollv!" reflected Hen. "Got your runners polished yet?" he asked. "Mine's all rust." "So are mine," you replied. Down crowded the snow — there never are such snows, nowadays; so jolly, so welcome, so free from disagreeable features — and in school and as you ploughed back and forth and shov- eled your paths, you and your comrades were riotously happy. Down tumbled the snow — great, soft flakes of it like shredded wool-pack — until, when it ceased, as much had fallen as heart of boy could wish for, which was considerable more than would have satisfied the majority of other people. The hill was covered, and " sliding" was to be "dandy" — and that was your sole thought. Why else had the snow come? To-day you remember that hill, don't you? Middleton's Hill! Of course you do! The best hill that ever existed. Perfect — for coast- ing. Ideal — for coasting. Grand — forecast- ing. Therefore an invaluable possession, al- though, be it said, of importance rather under- estimated by the public generally. [i 9 8] When You Were a Boy The hill started off gently; suddenly, with a dip, increased its slope; and after a curve, and a splendid bump over a culvert, merged with the level roadway. Difficult enough to ascend in muddy spring, in dusty summer, and even in hard fall, when with the winter it came into its own and was polished by two hundred run- ners, horse and man usually sought another route. It was practically surrendered to you and yours, as your almost undisputed heritage. To be sure, occasionally some rebellious citizen attempted to adapt it to his own selfish ends by sprinkling ashes, in a spasmodic fashion, athwart it; but a little snow or water soon nullified the feeble essay. To be sure, occa- sionallv a stubborn driver, his discretion less than his valor, tilted at the glistening, glassy acclivity; and while his horses, zigzagging and slipping, toiled upward, you and yours hailed him as a special gift of Providence and gleefully hitched on behind. Yes, it was a paragon of a hill, with a record of pleasure to which here and there a broken bone (soon mended) lent but additional zest. The hill is ready. The track, at first traced [ J 99] u w p I— I > O i— i u w - C/2 C/2 I— I Q W ►J When You Were a Boy by the accommodating sleds and feet of a pio- neer few, gradually has been packed and pol- ished until now it lies smooth, straight-away, inviting. The hill is ready. So are you. Your round turban-like cap is pulled firmly upon your head and over your ears, your red tippet (mother knit it) twice encircles your neck, crosses your breast, and is tied (by mother) behind in a double knot, your red double mittens (mother knit them and constantly darns them) are on your hands, and your legs and feet are in your stout copper-toed, red-topped boots. And your cheeks (mother kissed them) are red, too. Twitched by its leading-rope, follows you, like a loyal dog, your sled — a very fine sled, than which none is finer. "Say, but she's slick, ain't she!" glories Hen, as you and he hurriedly draw in sight of your goal. From all quarters other boys, and girls as well, are converging, with gay chatter, upon this Mecca of winter sport. Far and wide has gone forth the word that Middleton's hill is "bully." "Ain't she!" you reply enthusiastically. With swoop and swerve and shrill cheer down [201] When You Were a Boy scud the sleds and bobs of the earlier arrivals, and the spectacle spurs you to the crest. Panting, you reach it. "You go first," you say, to Hen. "Naw; you," says he. "All right. I'd just as lief," you respond. Breast-high you raise your sled, its rope securely gathered in your hands. "Clea-ear the track!" you shriek. "Clea-ear the track!" echoes down the hill, from the mouths of solicitous friends. You give a little run, and down you slam, sled and all, but you uppermost; a masterly exposition of "belly-bust." Over the crest you dart. The slope is beneath you, and now you are off, willy-nilly. "Clea-ear the track!" again you shriek, with your last gasp. You have begun to fall like a rocket, faster, faster, ever faster, through the black- bordered lane. The wind blinds your eyes, the wind stops your breath, the wind sings in your ears, like an oriflamme stream and strain your tippet- ends, and the snow-crystals spin in your wake. Dexterously applying your toes you steer more by intuition than by sight. You dash around [202] When You Were a Boy the curve; you strike the culvert, and it flings you into the air until daylight shows 'twixt you and your steed; ka-thump! you have landed again; and presently over the level you glide with slowly decreasing speed until, the last glossy inch covered, the uttermost mark pos- sible, this time, attained, you arise, with eyes watery and face tingly, and stand aside to watch Hen, who comes apace in your rear. "Aw, that ain't fair! You're shovin'! That don't count!" you assert, as Hen, in order to equal your mark, evinces an inclination to propel with his hands, alligator fashion. Hen sheepishly desists, and scrambles to his feet. ' ' Cracky ! That's a reg'ler old belly-bumper, ain't it!" he exclaims joyously. He refers to the delicious culvert. You assent. The culvert is a consummation of bliss to which words even more expressive than Hen's may not do justice. Up the slope, in the procession along its edge, you and he trudge; and down again, in the procession along its middle, you fly. Over and over and over you do it, and the snow fills sleeve and neck and boot-leg. [ 20 3] When You Were a Boy Occasionally, with much noise but little real speed, adown the track comes a girl, or two girls. The majority of them, however, use a track of their own — a shorter, slower track, off at one side. Poor things, condemned by fate to their own company and that of the smallest, timidest urchins, they pretend to have exciting times. They sit up straight, girls do, the ethics of society seeming to deny them the privilege of " belly- buster," and on high sleds — nothing can be more ignominious than a "girl's sled" — scraping and screaming, showing glimpses of red flannel petticoats as they prod with their heels, acting much like frightened hens scuttling through a yard they plough to their goal. For a girl to essay the big hill appears to be "no end of" an undertaking. First she — or, probably they, inasmuch as girls usually adven- ture in pairs, to encourage each other; first they, then, squat on their flimsy sled, girl- fashion (another reproach this: "girl fashion"), and titter and shriek; and the one on behind urges by "hitching" with her feet in the peculiar girl way, and the one on before holds back with her feet and says: [204] When You Were a Boy "Wait!" They wait for bob and sled to precede, until with frantic unanimity of action they seize upon "GIRL FASHION" a favorable interim betwixt coasters, and with trepidation are off. But you overtake them. [205] When You Were a Boy "Look out!" you yell, as on your bounding courser you eat up the trail. "Look out!" You try to retard your speed by dragging your copper toes. Anticipating the shock of collision you lift the forward part of you, like a worm reconnoitering. "Look ou-out!" One last agonizing appeal. And now the pesky girls, glancing behind with sudden appre- hension, in utmost haste and terror-stricken confusion, amidst wild cries, by dint of laboring feet veer ditchward, stop on the brink, and as you shoot past rise frustrated and gaze after. Well, they have spoiled your slide. You had a grand start, and goodness knows where you might have gone to. Darn it, why can't girls stay on their own track! Yes, indeed. Nevertheless, budding chivalry grafted upon natural superiority prompts you to take Somebody down on a real ride. You would like this Somebody, if the other boys would only let you; but most of the time you cannot afford to. A sparkling little figure in white hood, fur- trimmed jacket, white mittens strung about her [206] When You Were a Boy neck, and plaid skirt well wadded out over long leggins, with her ridiculously high sled (girl- sled) she stands by looking on. "Want to go down, once? I'll take you," you offer bluffly. From amidst the giggling society of her sex she bravely advances, and obediently seats herself on your sled. "Oh, Lucy! I'd be 'shamed! Sliding with a boy! Oh, Lucy!" Lucy wriggles disdainfully. " Don't you wish you could!" she retorts. "Aw, John! Takin' a girl! 'Fore I'd be seen takin' a girl!" joins in the gibing chorus of your mates You hurriedly shove off. "You got room enough?" asks your solicitous passenger. "Lots," you affirm huskily; and crouched to steer you leave the derisive crest behind you. Down you spin — you and Lucy, both grip- ping hard the sled; your shoulder pressing against her soft back, and her hair-ribbon whipping across your mouth as you peer vigi- lantly ahead. Here is the culvert. [207] When You Were a Boy "Hold on tight!" you warn. "Whisk — slam!" With a tiny scream from Lucy you have landed, right side up, the three of you. "Wasn't that bully?" you query reassuringly. But Lucy must first recover her breath. This she does when finally, the sled having entirely ceased motion, you and she must fain disembark. "My!" she gasps. "I jus' love to go fast like that, don't you?" Her tone conveys volumes. Suffused with proud gratification you pick up the rope. "You're a splendid steerer, aren't you!" she says admiringly. "Huh!" you scoff. "Steerin' 's easy." "Get on and I'll haul you up," you proffer. "Won't I be too heavy?" she objects, de- lighted. "Naw," you assert. "You're nothin'." Ignoring jeers and flings you carry out your voluntary program, to the very end. "Thank you ever so much," pipes Lucy, nimbly running to rejoin her own kind. Shamefacedly you lift your sled, and with a tremendous belly-buster are away again; and [208] When You Were a Boy when once more you reach the crest your straggle from grace will have been forgotten. And at last, wet through and through, coun- tenance like a polished Spitzenburgh (you have a right to the simile, as the barrel in the cellar will testify), hands and feet like parboiled lobsters, reluctant to withdraw but monstrously hungry, you arrive at home to be fed. "John! Don't come in here that way! Go right into the kitchen and take off your boots. Mercy!" expostulates mother, as in you stamp, leaving a slushy trail and munching a doughnut as a sop to that clamorous stomach. Wearily you return to the kitchen, and apply your oozy, slippery boots to the bootjack. Then, having abandoned your footgear, their once gay tops now a sodden maroon and their copper toes already showing effects of the friction whereby they steered you down the hill, to steam behind the kitchen stove, you obey orders to go up- stairs and change into the dry clothing that mother has thoughtfully laid out. What a nuisance mothers are! Oh, dear, won't supper ever be ready! [209] When You Were a Boy " Billy Lunt an' Chub Thornbury's got a bob. Let's us make one," proposed Hen. " Let's," you agreed. So, combining equipments, you and he pro- ceeded, in emulation. The two sleds were connected by a board seven feet long, bolted as securely as possible to the rear sled, and fastened to the front one by a single bolt which acted as a pivot — and which, at a sudden jerk, would pull out, and throw the major portion of the bob upon its own resources. However, the bob was a very good bob, and when cleverly shoved off and expertly steered gallantly maintained itself against all comers; even against Fat Day's more aristocratic "boughten" bob, which, with its gay paint and varnish and rail " hand-holts," was the pride of Fat's heart and the apple of his stingy eye. Hen steers (for steering is a science) and you shove off (for shoving off is an art). Between you two, pilot and captain of the craft, it packed, on occasion, an inconceivable number of passengers, with always room for one more. " Gimme a ride. "Lemme ride!" beseech friends. [210] Wh en You Were a Boy "Aw, you can't! There ain't any room!' "There is, too! I can get on, all right." "THE BOB WAS A VERY GOOD BOB" "G'wan! Don't you let him, John! Don't you let him, Hen! We're all squashed now!" This from the jealous load already booked. [211] When You Were a Boy " Shove up, can't you! Aw, shove up! What's the matter with you! There's lots of room!" And the pestiferous intruder squeezes in. The bob looks like a gigantic caterpillar upside down, so thick are the heads and shoulders in a series of ridges. The board creaks. The load also complains, grunting uneasily as each boy, fitting like a bootjack into the boy before, his legs stretched horizontally along either flank, tries to " shove up closer." Hen, his feet braced against the stick nailed across the points of the guiding sled, is the only unit of the mass that enjoys any elbow-space. But then, the pilot of a vessel is ex officio the favored personage. "Darn it, lift up your feet, there!" "Then somebody hold 'em! Grab my feet, somebody!" "Whose feet I got, anyway?" "Aw, quit your shovin' so!" "G'wan an' push off. We don't want any more." "Gimme some room!" you plead. "I only got about an inch!" They hitch along, and cede you another inch. [212] When You Were a Boy "Clea-ear the track!" You bend and push. The bob starts. It gathers way. One concluding effort, and you land aboard just as it is outstripping you; and kneeling upon your scant two inches, hanging for dear life to the shoulders of the boy in front of you, are embarked for your rapturous yet excruciating flight. With lurch and leap, with whoop and cheer, down zips the bob, every lad clutching his neighbor as he may, each cemented to each — but you, out in the cold, clutching most des- perately of all. "I'm fallin' off!" you announce wildly. The two inches are only one and a half. " Jocko's fallin' off!" How delightful — for the others ! The news of your lingering predicament is received with hoots of wicked glee. Around the curve, with everybody leaning, and the rear sled slewing outward whilst you balance on its extreme edge. Going — Over the culvert, a double jounce, and now you are all but gone. Going, going — On the level, nearing the finish, speed slightly abated; and now your tired fingers relax, you [ 2I 3] When You Were a Boy cannot hang on any longer, your knees slip, going, going — gone; but gone more gracefully than you had reason to expect. "You didn't gimme any room!" you accuse, angrily, when you meet your squad as in rollick- ing mood they tow the bob back toward the crest. The old hill is not what it used to be. It has been "graded." No more do the sleds flash adown as they once did. A new-fangled set of [214] When You Were a Bo y city ordinances forbids. Hazardous curve and inspiring "belly-bumper," tippet and copper- toed boots, clipper and bob, have vanished to- gether, leaving only a few demure little boys in overcoats, and demure little girls in muffs and boas, who sit up straight and properly descend, at a proper pace, along the outskirts — and think that they are having fun! Good-by, old hill. [215] GOIN' SWIMMIN' GOIN' SWIMMIN' THE sun was laying a fervid course higher and higher athwart the bending blue; in household kitchens was the odor of sassafras tea — and in your mouth the taste of it ; the air was humid, the earth was mellow, winter flannels a sticky burden, shoes burning shackles; snakes had long been out, and turtles were emerging, to bask, and to pop in, as of old, with exasperat- ing freedom; you yearned to follow them. The water looked warm. Snoopie Mitchell, always authority on everything, bluffly asserted that it was warm. But Snoopie appeared to have a hide impervious to discomfort. Snoopie did as he pleased, and nothing ever hurt him, notwithstanding. Sometimes you wished that your father and mother would observe, and learn, to your profit. "Dare you to go in swimmin'!" volunteered Billy Lunt, that hot spring noon, when it seemed to you that you must burst out of your smother- ing clothes as a snake out of his skin. [219] When You Were a Boy "Aw, we ain't afraid; are we, Hen?" you answered promptly, enrolling Hen for support. "No. We'll go if you will," retorted Hen. "Snoop Mitchell — he's been in an' he says it's dandy," informed Billy. Of course! That Snoopie! He was well named. "Aw — I bet he ain't, just the sam-ee," you faltered enviously. "He has, too. You ask him, now." And Snoopie at the moment opportunely sauntering near, Billy hailed him: "Snoopie! Ain't you been in swimmin' already?" Snoopie grandly nodded, and nonchalantly spat betwixt two front upper teeth. "Course I have," he answered. "Ain't you kids been in yet? Aw, gee!" "Was it warm?" you inquired humbly. "Jus' right. Makes you feel fine. We go in every day, about — me an' Spunk Carey." That settled it. The swimming season had opened. During the afternoon at school you and Hen and Billy were in an ecstatic tremor. From behind his geography Billy darted into sight [220] When You Were a Boy two fingers, you responded, daringly, with two fingers, and Hen telegraphed quick accord with like two fingers — the mysterious "V" sign of the Free Masonry of swimmers. Teacher saw, and frowned; but "teacher," by reason of her limitations of sex, could not appreciate what you were having, and what she was missing. With a proud consciousness, you and Hen and Billy foregathered after school and started creekward. "We're goin' swimmin'!" you called back to former associates. "Aw, it's too cold!" they complained. "We don't care. 'Twont' hurt us." "Bet you don't go in!" "Bet you a hundred dollars we do!" "Bet you two hundred you don't!" (Dollars meant so much less to you in those days than in these.) "You come along and see!" "Uh-uh. We're goin' to play ball." Very well ; let them stay and play ball, if they liked. You would be entitled to strut on the morrow. In the afternoon sun the creek lay smiling, [221] When You Were a Boy inviting, deluding. Upon its bank a new crop of tin cans testified that the fishing season, also, had opened. Some of the cans were yours. The grass was soft, and sitting on it you vied with Hen and Billy in pulling off shoes and stockings. "First in!" challenged Billy, hastily peeling. You fumbled with the buttons which united waist with knickerbockers, and silently resolved that you would let him beat. Evidently Hen was of mind identical. Billy, now naked like some young faun, but singularly white and spindly, gave a coltish little kick and prance, and, with ostentatious gusto, advanced to the water's edge. Yourself exposed to the world, feeling oddly bare and defenseless — a feeling which with wont would disappear, as the summer wore on — you stood and, shivering, wrapped yourself in your arms and watched him. Billy stuck a toe into the water and quickly drew it back. "Is it cold?" you queried. "Naw! Come on!" he urged. "Let's see you go in first." "That ain't fair. You come in, too!" [222 ] When You Were a Boy "Naw! You dared us. You got to do it first," declared Hen. "Huh, I ain't afraid," asserted Billy. Resolutely he put one foot in. Involuntarily he flinched — but he followed it with the other. Witnessing his actions, reading that his toes were curling, you and Hen jeered and whooped. As you jeered, you continued to huddle, and to shrink within yourself. Gee, but it was cold! Somehow, the sun did not warm, and a little breeze, heretofore unnoted, enveloped you with an icy breath. You humped your shoulders, and your teeth chattered. Hen's teeth, also, were chattering. You could hear them. "Go on! Duck over!" you told Billy, de- risively. Billy was game. Suddenly, with water up to his quaking knees, he ducked. In an instant he was upright again — staggering, gasping, sputtering, but triumphant. "Come on in!" he implored, wildly solicitous that you and Hen, hooting your glee, should participate more actively. "'Tain't cold. What's the matter with you?" Followed by Hen you diffidently moved for- ward. Shivering, gingerly you teetered down, [ 22 3] When You Were a Boy twigs and little stones hurting your yet tender soles. Billy ducked again, apparently with the ut- most relish, and floundered and splashed, his energy very marked. You experimented with a foot — and hastily jerked it out. "Gee!" you exclaimed. "I ain't go in' in! It's too cold." "I ain't, neither," decreed Hen. "Aw, 'tain't cold a bit when you've wet over," assured Billy eagerly — but suspiciously blue. "Take a dare — aw, I wouldn't take a dare! You're stumped! Yah-ah! I've stumped you!" Diabolically did Billy flounder and gibe. He paused, expectantly, for you planted a foot, and gasped, and followed with the other; so did Hen. Billy playfully splashed you. "Come on!" he cried. "Come on!" "Ouch! Quit that, will you?" you snarled, as the poignant drops stung your thin skin. "I'm comin', ain't I?" Deeper, a little deeper, you went, with your piteously pleading flesh trying to recede from that repellant glacial line creeping up, inch by inch. [224] When You Were a Boy Billy shrieked with joy. What is misery when it has company! "Duck!" he cackled. "Duck! 'Twon't be cold after you've ducked." Must you? Oh, must you? Yes. You drew a long breath, shut your eyes, and des- perately butted under. So, you dimly were conscious, did Hen. Ugh! You choked; your stomach clove flat against your backbone, and in you was not space for air. Blindly you recovered, and lurched and clawed and fought for breath, while Billy rioted with wicked exultation. " 'Tain't c-c-cold, is it?" you gasped defiantly. "No; 'tain't c-c-cold a bit," chattered Hen. "I told you 'twasn't cold," sniggered Billy. But you impetuously plashed for shore; so did Hen; so did Billy. With numbed fingers you made all haste to pull your clothes over the goose-flesh of your weazened limbs and your shuddering little body. You began to grow warmer. You tried to control rattling teeth. "'Twasn't cold!" "Of course it wasn't!" "We'll tell all the kids it's bully." "Gee! I feel fine, don't you?" [225] When You Were a Boy "You bet!" "Let's come again." "Let's come to-morrow." "N-no, I can't come to-morrow," you de- clared. "I can't, either," said Hen. Retrospect was most delightful; but prospect — well, here was a case where the prospect did not please. Anyhow, you had not been stumped. Your honor was intact — and you could rest on your laurels. You could nicely combine dis- cretion with valor; so why not? "I've been in swimmin'," you ventured, with becoming modesty, at the supper-table that evening. "John! When?" reproved mother, aghast. "To-day, after school." You endeavored to speak with the careless- ness befitting a seasoned nature such as yours — but you awaited with some inward trepidation family developments. "Why!" ejaculated mother. You felt that she was gazing across at father. Much depended, you realized, upon father. However, he had been a boy, and he surely would understand. [226] When You Were a Boy "But wasn't the water too cold?" she ques- tioned anxiously. "Uh-uh," you signified, steadily eating. "It must have been cold," insisted mother. "Why, the sun hasn't had time to warm it yet. I should think you'd have frozen to death!" "It was dandy. Makes you feel fine," you assured boldly. "Billy Lunt dared Hen and me, and — " "I suppose if some other boy dared you to jump off the top of the church steeple you'd do it, then," stated mother severely. "He'd have to do it first," you explained with "Well, I should think you'd have frozen," murmured mother, with an appealing glance at father. Perhaps she would have frozen — being, like "teacher," of a sex unfortunate. But not you — nay, not mighty, dauntless, much-experienced you, with your ten long years backing you up. Huh! Not always was swimming thus a task; the embrace of the creek deceitful and inhospitable. Ah, those glorious, piping, broiling summer [227] When You Were a Boy days, when from the faded sky the heat streamed down, and from the simmering earth the heat streamed up; when abroad, in the maples and the elms and the apple-trees incessantly scraped with ghoulish glee the locusts, and in the fields the quail cried perseveringly , ' ' Wet 1 More wet ! More wet!" when the sun ruled absolutely, and everybody — save you and your fellows — stewed and panted under his sway; "dog-days" — aye, and boy-days! Then, then, at the swimming-hole the kingdom of boyhood held high carnival. All nature lay lax and heaving, seeking shade and avoiding exertion, as outward bound through the stifling afternoon you and Hen hastened for the swimming-hole. Even the birds were subdued, and the drone of the bumble-bee was languid, protesting; but what did you and Hen care about such things as temperature or humidity? Goodness! You were "groin' swimmin'!" As you pattered on, you and he, the boards of the sidewalk scorched your bare soles, tough- ened as they were, and even the baked earth of the pathway along the vacant lots tortured, so that, with "ouches" and "gees" you hopped [228] When You Were a Boy for shaded spots or sought the turf. Beat down upon your flapping straws the strenuous sun — his beams, after all, not unfriendly, but merely testing, and in a hearty way, welcoming. He recognized you two as akin to the meadow- larks and the gophers, and he knew that he might not harm you. You were immunes. The outskirts of the village are reached right speedily; and now off at a tangent, athwart the drowsy, palpitating pasture where the bees are busy amidst the clover, making for a fringe of trees leads a path worn by many a hurrying, bare, and buoyant sole. You can hear, ahead of you, an enthusing medley of gay shrieks and cries and laughter. "Crickety!" you say to Hen, quickening the pace. " There's a whole lot in already!" And you are not even undressed! On before, between the tree-trunks at your destination, you can glimpse, strewn over the sod or hanging from low branches, rejected and dejected garments — limp shirts, hickory, checked, tinted; stumpy trousers, dangling or down -flung. You descry the patchy blue of Snoopie Mitchell's one-suspendered overalls; so you know that Snoopie is there. You know [229] When You Were a Boy who else is there, too. The apparel is evi- dence. The sight redoubles your efforts. In rivalry with Hen, panting, perspiring, eager, you pene- trate the trees and stop short on the bank. You have arrived. Yes, here they are: Snoopie, and Billy Lunt, and Fat Day (his body covered with hives), and Skinny, and Chub, and Nixie Kemp (who can exhibit the biggest vaccination mark of all of you), and Tom Kemp (who is always peeling, somewhere), and — oh, a glorious company, wallowing like albino porpoises, threshing like whales ! "A-a-a-ah, lookee, lookee!" greets Snoopie (indefatigable, omnipresent) shrilly, grinning up at you; and for your benefit he stands on his head and waves his brown legs above the surface. " Hello, Fat!" " Hello, Skinny!" " Hello, Jocko!" " Hello, Hen!" "Hello, Nix!" "Come on in! Come on in!" "Gee! It's dandy!" [230] When You Were a Boy "Water's jus' fine! Warm as milk!" "You're missin' it! We been in all day." Harrowing announcement ! Nor you nor Hen needs invitation by word of mouth. You are ripping feverishly at your obstinate buttons, and tugging feverishly at your pestering clinging garments. But how absurdly simple was your attire, as reviewed to-day from your environment of starch and balbriggan, hosiery and collar. Nevertheless, many a time, in your agony of haste, you envied Snoopie, who with a single movement slipped the one suspender of his overalls and ducked out of his voluminous shirt, and with a whoop was in ! — happy Snoopie ! Now, investing apparel cast aside in an igno- minious heap, at last free and untrammeled you stride forward. From knee down and from neck up you are dark-brown; between, you are whitish-brown. Before the season closes you will be an even brown all over (like Snoopie), if your ambition is realized. First you must wet your head. This is the law ; else you may get cramps. You hurriedly wet it. "Look out!" you warn with a significant step or two backward, to gain momentum. When You Were a Boy You give a little run, and with a rapturous shout and a grand splash you are in. So is Hen. Oh, bliss! The caressing, rollicking flood envelops you to the shoulders. You wade, you kick, you sputter, you blow, you plunge your length, you squeal your joy intense - - you con- vince yourself and would convince others that you swim; and your comrades wade, and kick, and sputter, and blow, and plunge their lengths, and squeal — and ostentatiously paddle. While Snoopie, crawling about under water, grabs legs; presently grabbing yours, and down you go, beneath, to emerge strangling, clutching, incensed. Stirred from the very bottom, all the pool is beaten to foam, the sun looks down between the spangling leaves and smiles, and the trees fondly overhang, stretching down friendly boughs. What a wonder you were, as a water per- former ! "See me float!" you yell — this being the popular pitch of conversation. And you could float — almost, that is, until [232] When You Were a Boy your feet or your face sank too far and forced you to rally. "Aw, that ain't floatin'! Jus' watch me!" decrees Snoopie. Snoopie really could float — and challenging admiring eyes he proceeds to display. "Watch me!" implores Fat. "Aw, gee! Watch Fat! Aw gee! That ain't floatin'! That ain't floatin', is it, Snoop? Fat wiggles his hands down by his sides!" "Don't either!" declares Fat, angrily, flopping his mottled self to a standing position. "You do, too! Don't he?" You could stand Snoopie's superiority, but not Fat's. "Well, I didn't wiggle 'em much, anyhow," grumbles Fat. With breath tight held and head tilted stanchly back, launching yourself and paddling furiously dog-fashion, you can easily imagine that you are cleaving a path through the murky flood. "You're touchin' bottom! Aw, you touched bottom!" accuses Fat. "I wasn't, either, darn you! I started 'way [ 2 33] When You Were a Boy up there at that stick and I come 'way down here!" (The distance is at least a yard.) Betimes, splashing out, you all seek the banks, amphibious-like; to streak yourselves fantasti- cally with mud, to cover yourselves luxuriously with hot sand, to race, to gambol, or to loll on the turf and emulously compare sunburn, " peels," and vaccination scars. In again you scamper, and the pool resumes its cauldron turmoil. The sun, from his new station low in the west, sends rays slanting in beneath the trees to signal "Home." "Come on, I'm goin' out!" says Hen. "You'd better, too. Your lips are blue as the dickens." "So are yours," you retort. " Ain't they, kids! Ain't Hen's lips bluer'n mine?" A farewell wallow, and out you wade reluct- antly. One by one out wade all. Your hands are shriveled with long soaking. You are water-logged. There is sand in your hair. Languidly you dress. With Snoopie and Hen and Fat and Skinny and the others — a company now chastened and subdued — back you stroll across the pas- ture, the setting sun in your face, the robins [234] When You Were a Boy piping their even-song, the locusts done and quiescent, katydids tentatively tuning up as their successors. The sky is golden in the west, pink overhead, blue in the east. Upon the clover the dew is collecting, annoying o'erzealous bees. Skinny and Nix drop off to the left, Snoopie to the right, each lining his straightest course for home. "Good-night, kids!" they call back. Now in the village, the little group rapidly dwindles. Presently only you and Hen and Billy remain. Billy turns in. At his gate Hen stops. The next gate is yours. You are glad. You are tired — so tired — so very limp and tired — and so hungry! [235] THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC TWAS the day of the picnic — the Baptist picnic. You yourself were not, by family persuasion, a member of that denomination, but the Schmidts, next door, were, and by the grace of Hen, your crony, you were enabled to gain admittance, upon occasion, into the Baptist 'bus. The 'bus was not scandalized. You had been in it before, as Methodist, Congregation- alism Unitarian — what not. So had Hen. Only a few little girls were shocked, and gazed at you disdainfully. "You ain't a Baptist!" they accused. "Neither's Blanche Davis!" you retorted, carrying the debate into the enemy's country. "I guess I've got as much right here as she has!" "I came with Lucy Barrett," informed Blanche, primly. " An' I come with Hen Schmidt. His father's a deacon, too!" you asserted. [239] When You Were a Boy "Oh, he ain't — is he, Mr. Jones? He ain't — is he?" appealed the little girls, shrilly. Mr. Jones, beaming with long-suffering, Sun- day-school-superintendent good humor, oblig- ingly halted. "Henry Schmidt's father ain't a deacon, is he?" "Yes, I believe so," affirmed Mr. Jones, pleasantly. Thus you valiantly maintained your position — and Hen's. When you and Hen had pantingly arrived at the rendezvous you had found yourselves in the midst of baskets and bustle. The baskets gave forth fascinating, mysterious clinks. In your individual capacity of guest you had brought no basket of your own, but you had helped Hen carry down the Schmidt contribution, and you knew of what it spake and smelled, and you had peeked in under the cover. Besides, Hen had told you, in detail. Clad in necessarily stout shoes, but quite superfluously clean waists, you and he, with the basket between, had hastened to the place of assembly. Other boys appeared. Poor indeed was that [240] When You Were a Boy wight who could not rake up a Baptist friend — particularly if his own church gave picnics. Therefore, behold, as at the millennium, the creeds of your world united to-day under one flag — which happened to be the Baptist. Snoopie Mitchell, of course, was there. Snoopie usually went fishing or skating on Sunday; but at picnic-time and Christmas even he did not deny the comforts of the church. "Hello!" you said. "Hello!" said Snoopie nonchalantly. "Aw, you kids are too late!" Snoopie never was too late. He had the instincts of the ranging shark, and, moreover, perfect freedom to obey them. "Why?" demanded you and Hen breath- lessly. "They took it away. Gee! Two freezers bigger'n me!" "More'n the Methodists had?" you inquired eagerly. "You bet!" affirmed Snoopie. You sighed — a happy, satisfied sigh. The passenger 'buses arrived, two of them. They were greeted with a cheer, and scarcely had the gaunt, rusty, white horses of the fore- [241] When You Were a Bo y most one swung about to back ere into it you all scrambled. You and Hen promptly plumped down at the end — end seats and the seat with the driver being the choice ones. "Children! Children! Be careful !" ap- pealed the superintendent, mechanically. Poor man, already he had done a hard day's work! As well might he have cautioned a river running down-hill. Jostled past you girls and boys, elbows in ribs, shoulder thrusting shoulder, in a competition that recognized no sex. Like lightning the hack is occupied to overflowing; packed with two lines, facing each other, of flushed, excited children, with here and there a flustered matron; you and Hen, as stated, holding the end seats, Billy Lunt (he wasn't a Baptist, either) up with the driver, but Snoopie, crafty, ragged Snoopie, hanging on at the steps! The 'bus rolls off. You all shout back de- risively at your outstripped associates. Father had darkly hinted that you should take an umbrella and rubber boots, and spoken of " total immersion," whatever that might be; but, lo, the sky is cloudless, the morn is of sparkling summer, the air is fresh, everything [242] When You Were a Boy is lovely, the town is behind and the picnic before, and you don't care, any more than you know, what he meant! You are in the 'bus; and the only person you envy is Snoopie, perilously clinging to its rear. With the horses at a trot he springs on and off, drags his feet or sprints behind, and is con- tinually saying "Lookee!" while he performs some new, adroit, impish deed. The women gasp and exclaim u Oh!" " I wish he wouldn't!" and "Mrs. Miller, can't you stop him!" Then somebody's hat blows off and creates a diversion. Half a block in your wake is the other 'bus, and occasionally jogs apace a carriage, with suggestive rattle of dishes and bulge of hamper. Your vehicle rumbles over a creek bridge and slowly rounds a curve. " I see it! I see it!" announces Billy, wrig- gling on his elevation. You all stretch necks to "see it," too. Yes, there, just before, in the woods to the right, are the forms of the earlier invaders — the good men and women constituting the volunteer band of provision-arrangers. The 'bus turns to the roadside. Issues from the driver a long and relieved "Whoa-oa!" [243] When You Were a Boy But, even as he says it, you and the other boys are out, over the sides. Under the fence you scoot, to race, madly whooping, up the wooded slope, fearful lest you are missing something. After you scamper, more timidly, the little girls, and last of all, ungallantly consigned to bring the picnic odds and ends, toil your elders. The 'bus rolls back to town, carrying a man or so delegated to get inevitably forgotten articles. Now all the wood is riotous with scream and shout. It is a wood filled with possibilities. Early somebody discovers a garter-snake, and at the rallying-cry destruction violently descends upon the harmless thing. Immediately, dan- gling from the end of a stick, it spreads con- fusion wherever feminine humanity may be encountered. At its approach the little girls squeal and run, the larger girls shriek and ex- postulate, and the various mothers shrink and glare indignantly. The superintendent it is who boldly interferes, takes the limp reptile, and throws it away. "There!" sigh glad onlookers. But Snoopie marks its fall, and presently recovers it; thereafter to carry it around in his [244] When You Were a Boy pocket, intent upon sticking it down unsuspect- ing comrades' backs. In the ravine is the shallow creek. As a means of entertainment the creek is about as good as the dead snake. 'Tis jump it and rejump it; 'tis wade it with shoes on and 'tis wade it with shoes off; and 'tis splash far and wide, to see which boy shall get the wetter. Milder spirits may elect to search for "pretty flowers," or "help mamma," or play "Pussy Wants a Corner," and "Ring Around a Rosie," where solicitous eyes might fondly oversee; where busily labor and perspire the superin- tendent and assistants, hanging swings and hammocks, lifting, opening, and unpacking; where benignly moves the minister, diffusing unspoken blessings. But you and yours must have more strenuous recreation. So already, when word is transmitted that "they're makin' the lemonade," your knickerbockers are torn from shinning up trees, your waist is limp from romping through the creek, and your face is red, and scratched, and streaming, and dirty. You are having fun. Lemonade! Two tubs of it, in the middle of each a lump of ice, about the ice floating [245] When You Were a Bo y disks of lemon, and a thirsty crowd encircling all. "Be careful, children. Let the little girls drink first, boys. My, my! That's not the way!" cautioned Mr. Jones, as, the supply of tin cups proving insufficient, some of you evinced a disposition to "get in all over." The little girls politely tripped off, wiping their mouths with their best handkerchiefs. You and Hen el al. lingered. Eventually the tubs were left unguarded. The moment seemed propitious for new diversion. "Let's see who can drink the most!" proposed Hen. The idea was brilliant. To hear was to act. It was plunge in your cup and gulp; and plunge it in and gulp; and fail not to throw the residue in your neighbor's face. Fast and furious waxed the play, with Snoopie appearing to be sure winner. "Aw, you ain't drinkin' it all! That ain't fair!" you accused, and the other boys joined in. "Shut up! I am, too!" replied Snoopie, angrily; and proceeded with his count: "Four- teen." [246] When You Were a Boy Distanced, his competitors paused, and jeal- ously, but half admiringly, watched. "Bo-oys! Bo-oys!" The gentle soprano voice with the reproach- ful, shocked inflection made you drop tin cups, the batch of you, and hastily look. 'Twas the minister's wife. In power she stood above the superintendent, even, and only slightly below the minister himself. "Why, why! You mustn't do that!" she objected, bearing down. Mustn't you? Well, all right; there was lots else to do, and, soaked without and within, reeking of lemonade, you withdrew to do it. "Gee — I drunk fifteen!" boasted Snoopie, patting his stomach. He proved to be high man. Yourself had to your score only the modest aggregate of ten. Behind, at the scene of the late contest, arose sounds of lamentation and dismay over the state of the tubs. Stately, mute, impenetrable, with baffling rag- carpet covering their tops, in the shade stand the two ice-cream freezers, and on all sides of them the feet of you and your cronies, and of the little girls as well, have well-nigh worn bare [ 2 47] When You Were a Boy the woodland sod. But now, torn away by less exalted emotions, you and Hen revolve around Mrs. Schmidt's tablecloth spread on the ground and weighted down with dishes. Here is to be your station at dinner. Other cloths there are, spread about, but Hen recom- mends his mother's. There will be a family feeling, and less chance of neglect. Drag slower and slower the minutes. Hen goes foraging, and returns gleefully with a cooky apiece. The delicious smell of sliced tongue and ham and boiling coffee permeates the air. "Henry, if you and John don't keep out from under foot, I'll take you right straight home!" threatens Mrs. Schmidt, exasperated. Other women, too, lower at you. "Yes, boys," chimes in the superintendent; "run away and play, and don't bother the people getting dinner. When we're ready we'll call you." But, oh, dear, supposing something should be all eaten up before you got there! At last, at the very last — as the French emphatically express it, a la fin des fins — your rebuffs are over. You are actually bidden to advance. 'Tis barely the wink of an eyelash, [248] When You Were a Boy but 'tis enough; and before a word is spoken you are there, the two of you, sitting elbow to elbow, on your calves, against the cloth : greedy- eyed, watery-mouthed, faint-stomached. From right and left come trooping young and old, none of them, save one or two couples from the Bible-class, trooping from very far. They settle like pigeons fluttering down to corn. About each cloth a circle is formed. Nobody is homeless. And isn't it time to start in? Alas! not yet. From his place ("Mr. Jones, do sit down! You look tired to death. Sit right here!" has been the imploration, and he has yielded) the superintendent bobs up and loudly claps his hands, and says: "Sh!" "Sh!" assist sundry whispers, as warning to you and your mates. It is the blessing, for, as Mr. Jones subsides, the minister rises. He prays long and fervently. Out of the corners of your eyes you continue to scan sand- wich, and cake, and jelly, and pickles, while your nose wriggles like the nose of an inquiring rabbit. You wonder why the minister cannot quit; but, ignoring every good stopping-point, [249] When You Were a Boy he proceeds on and on. You hear Hen groan with pent-up disgust. You slyly groan back. "Amen." It has come! Mrs. Schmidt's glance flashes rebuke in your direction, but neither you nor Hen cares. High swells an instant chorus of talk and rattling staccato of dishes. Hither and thither flit busy servers; and, behind the backs of the circle, down your way is progressing in solemn state a huge tray of sandwiches. You watch it eagerly. It brushes your shoul- der. You and Hen grab together. They are bun sandwiches, with cold boiled ham between. Your mouth opens against yours, and your teeth meet through it. "Yum, yum!" you mumble ecstatically to Hen. "Yum, yum!" agrees Hen. Come other sandwiches — tongue and beef and potted ham; come cold fried chicken and pressed veal loaf; come jelly — several kinds — and pickles, sweet and sour. Sometimes you hesitate. "I will if you will," dares Hen; therefore you generally do. Comes coffee, and more lemonade; comes pie [250] When You Were a Boy — apple, lemon, blueberry, custard ; comes cake — chocolate, lemon-layer, jelly-layer, plain, frosted, cocoanut, spice, angel-food. "Urn! Urn!" revels Hen at intervals. "Um! Urn!" you respond, in perfect sym- pathy. Comes ice cream in " heaping" saucers! Come cookies and sweet crackers, ginger- bread, cream-puffs, kisses and oranges. You both have been obliged to kneel — ex- panding, as it were, from your sitting posture. And now the feast is done. Vainly you view the debris; you have accomplished marvels, but you can do no more. You sigh, and, sucking an orange, reluctantly you stand. You waddle off, feeling fat and stuffy, to convene with the other boys, and compare notes. "Aw, you ought to been at our table!" claims Billy Lunt. "We had chocolate cake with chocolate an inch thick — didn't we, Buck?" "Buck" promptly assents. "So'd we! So'd we!" retorts Hen. "An' we had jelly-cake, an' — " "So'd we!" inform rivals, bound to uphold the honors of their boards. "An' lemon pie — " "An' custard, an' — " [251] When You Were a Boy "An' pickled peaches — " "Golly! I'm 'bout busted!" chuckles Billy, complacently. Standing companionably by, Snoopie harkens and grins, but says little. Only from a bulging pocket he extracts another orange and drills into it. One may be certain that he, at least, has missed nothing. Prudence might dictate a period of quiescence as a tribute to digestion. But the day is short, and a half a bun skimming into your midst — that is, into the midst of the group, not into your own midst, where it would have hard work to find lodgment — arouses you to retaliation. Back and forth and across fly the remnants from the various tablecloths, and applause greets every hit. Snoopie introduces a popular feature by plastering against a tree-trunk a fragment of a custard pie. Forthwith custard and lemon pie are at a premium, these being the kinds that stick. Then, interrupting the pleasant pastime, charge upon your ranks horrified witnesses, suddenly awakening to the crisis. "Boys! Stop it! Stop it at once ! The idea!" Expostulating, they drive you all, shame- faced but sniggering, from the premises. You [252] When You Were a Boy leave the plot looking as though a caisson laden with cartridges of lunch had exploded there! The principal event of the day being over, your elders relax into a state more or less lethargic. The women sit and crochet and chat. The minister goes to sleep with a hand- kerchief on his face, and even some of your juniors follow suit — members of the infant class seeking the pillow of their mothers' laps. The Bible-class wanders off in couples. The superintendent, only, is kept active by demands of "Swing me, Mr. Jones; please swing me!" from the little girls. Naturally the inspiration for you and yours is to follow the Bible-class couples and spy upon them; when they think themselves nicely se- cluded and comfortably ensconced, to steal upon them; and in the midst of their innocent confidences to hoot upon them (with such deli- cate insinuations as "Aw, Mr. Johnson 's Miss Saxby's beau!" — or "Say, Miss Lossing, Mr. Pugsley wants to kiss you i") — and then to flee, riotously giggling. It is four o'clock. Prolonged shouts from the throats of the superintendent and assistants echo through the woods, calling together the [253] When You Were a Boy stragglers. The 'buses have arrived. Home- going must be accomplished early, on account of the " little ones." All right. If the day is done, another day is coming. You rush down, and you and Hen again secure the end seats. The 'bus fills, its load, on the whole, not so sprightly, nor so enthu- siastic, nor so clean as in the morning. Snoopie hangs on at the rear. The driver says "Gid-dap!" Somebody re- plies with "Whoa!" "Whoa-oa!" supplement a score of voices. To frantic encouragement descends the hill, scurrying as if from Indians or bears, a belated, last Bible-class couple. "Gid-dap!" once more urges the driver. The 'bus moves. You yawn. Hen yawns. You are tired and sticky. Hen, also, is tired and sticky. "Lookee!" bids Snoopie. He throws away his dead snake; his pockets are empty again. Yet in the depth of the aftermath you brighten. Your thoughts travel ahead. The Presbyterians are to have their picnic next week! "You goin'?" asks Hen. 'You bet!" you reply confidently. [254] THE OLD MUZZLE-LOADER THE OLD MUZZLE-LOADER THE old muzzle-loader was so much the taller that when you stood opposed to it, only by a series of hitches, a few inches at a time, could you extract the ramrod from the slot. In your aiming exercises you leaned so far backward that you formed almost a half circle. The stock was scarred, the hammer was loose, the barrel was rusted and the sight awry, but it was a fine gun; yes, a fine gun, fit for a boy to worship. And when, with father coaching you, its barrel firmly supported in the crotch of the apple tree and its butt pressed against your throbbing chest, you shut your eyes and jerked the trigger, as you picked yourself up while invidious spectators gamboled and cheered, with what gusto did you assert that "it didn't hurt a bit," and avowed that you wanted to do it again. [257] When You Were a Boy How it happened that here you were, headed for the open country with the old muzzle-loader hoisted athwart your shoulder, probably no one alive remembers, but you — and Hen Schmidt, your aider and abettor as accessory after the fact. Dangling against your right knee was the powder flask, dangling against your left knee was the shot flask, and the two banged and rattled as you walked. In one trousers pocket were wads, in the other caps. "Lemme carry it?" pleaded Hen. You refused. ' * Naw, sir ! " you rebuked. " You don't know how." " Just to that big tree," persisted Hen. You relented; and under your watchful eye Hen proudly bore the ennobling piece to the tree adown the dusty roadside. Exactly at the tree you claimed possession again. To-day, looking back, can you not see your- self, a sturdy little figure trudging valorously onward, with the two flasks swaying and jiggling and the old gun cutting like sin into your uncomplaining flesh, and with heart so buoyed by the glorious present that it refused to think on the dubious future; and Hen, scarcely less [258] When You Were a Boy elate, solicitous to relieve you of your burden, keeping pace, step for step? The birds, flitting over or hopping upon either hand along your route, witnessed and gaily laughed. Well might they laugh, because with impunity. Your death-dealing weapon was not loaded; not yet. But presently you halt and in an angle of the rail fence you load, do the two of you, yourself operating, while Hen, keenly critical, at each movement de- claims and suggests. "Aw, gee! That ain't enough powder!" scoffs Hen. "What you 'fraid of? If it was mine, you bet I'd put in twice as much!" "I guess I know," you retort. "Guess I've seen my father load more times 'n you ever have! What vou want to do, bust it?" The powder is dumped into the muzzle, the gun being propped slantwise so that you may work conveniently. The invincible grains fall in a tinkling shower through the black cylinder. You stuff in a wad. "Here- ' says Hen. "Lemme do it." You ram it down, and Hen rams it down. In goes the shot, No. 4, nice and large. You insert the final wad. You ram, and Hen rams. [259] When You Were a Boy "Look out!" you warn Hen, who edges so close as to joggle you; and with breathless care you press upon the nipple a cap, the way you have seen your father do, and you lower the protecting hammer over it, also the way you have seen your father do. Assisted by Hen you restore the ramrod to its groove. You straighten up. You are ready. You shoulder arms. You and Hen climb the fence and scale the hill, upon whose slope begins your favorite patch of timber. Making sport of your backs, along the fence that you have just quitted scampers a chipmunk, but you do not know. Your thoughts are ahead. The consciousness that your gun is charged imbues you with a strange thrill of importance. You are deadly. Come what may, lion, bear, wildcat, squirrel, rabbit, eagle, owl, partridge, you are prepared, so let them one and all beware. You and Hen talk in guarded tones, whilst your four eyes rove hither and thither, greedy to sight prey. But under-foot, stealthy though you fancy your advance, rustle the dried leaves, spreading afar the news of your passage; and hushed though you consider your voices, they [260] When You Were a Boy penetrate into sharp ears attuned to catch the slightest alien sound. Eyes, sharper than yours, widen and wait. You would give the world to see a rabbit or a squirrel. You have just as much chance of seeing a rabbit or a squirrel as you have of seeing a hippopotamus. However, it doesn't matter. Hist! On before something twitters. "There's a bird!" "Sh, can't you! I hear him!" Cautiously you and Hen steal forward, tip- toeing over crackling leaf and twig, your gaze riveted on the distance. "I see him!" announces Hen, excitedly. "Where?" you whisper. "There — in that tree! Now he's runnin' 'round the trunk! He's a woodpecker." (Nat- uralists might cavil and term him a "warbler," but just the same he acts like a woodpecker!) "Can't you see him?" Alas, you can't — at least, you don't. Hen cannot abide such stupidity. Besides, the thing is liable to make off. "Ain't you got any eyes? Gee whizz! Gimme the gun. I can pop him from here." Give Hen the gun? Well, hardly! You [261] When You Were a Boy- clutch it the tighter, and strain and peer. Now you glimpse him — a tiny chap in a pepper-and- salt suit, busily engaged in pecking at the bark beneath his toes. "I see him!" you mutter exultantly. You stoop ; Hen stoops. You glide up, mak- ing service of covert afforded by tree and bush, and your flasks catch, and sometimes you step on them. Hen, too, glides, just behind, imi- tating your every movement. The hour is portentous, but the dare-devil bird braves it and maintains his post at table. Possibly, deceived by your woodcraft (as you fondly suppose), he is oblivious to the fact that yard by yard two boys are drawing closer and closer. You are breathing hard, and to your rear pants Hen, for the advance has been onerous. "G'wan and shoot! He'll fly away," urges Hen, hoarsely. Yes, you are near enough. No. 4 shot at fifteen yards ought to do the business for that chap. You slowly settle upon your knees, be- hind the tree trunk which is your shelter, and cock your piece. At the click the "wood-' pecker" for an instant ceases operations, and flirts his tail inquisitively. [262] When You Were a Boy "Darn it — you've scared him!" you accuse Hen, who shifts and squirms at your back, in attempts to secure a better view. Hen holds himself in suspense, apparently well-nigh suffo- cating with the effort. You bring your piece to bear, but it is so long and awkward that you are being worsted in the struggle, when Hen eagerly proposes: "Lay it on my shoulder!" You recede a little, and Hen wriggles forward, the transfer being accomplished with mingled fear and haste. Hen's shoulder is rather low for an ideal rest, but you may not complain. You sink as far as possible, and aim. The muzzle projects beyond the tree trunk, and wavers in space. Beyond the space is your suspicious woodpecker, a creature of the most unexpected and eccentric movements imaginable. He never stays "put." Just as the sight approaches him, he changes position ; and just as he approaches the sight, it changes. A conjunction of the two seems hopeless. "Why don't you shoot? What's the matter with you?" gasps Hen. You shut both eyes. Boom! [263] When You Were a Boy Backward you keel, head down, heels up, and the gun, jumping from Hen's shoulder, rasps along the tree to the ground. "Did I hit him? Where'd he go?" you cry frantically, staggering to your feet. Hen is bounding toward the tree whereon the impudent bird had been foraging. You wonder that the tree yet remains, but there it is, to all appearances as hale as ever. "Did I hit him?" you repeat, seizing the gun and following. "I dunno. But he flew off kind of funny," reports Hen. " Find any blood ? I bet I wounded him like everything, anyhow!" you assert. The wood- pecker must have bled internally, for, search as you two might, no tell-tale splashes of gore could be discovered. There were even no feathers. You scanned the tree, but upon close inspection it still persisted in acknowledging no damage, despite the frightful leaden deluge to which you had subjected it. "Aw, you missed him! Aw, gee!" suddenly bemoans Hen, overcome by disappointment. "Didn't neither. He flew just when I shot, and I couldn't stop!" you reply, defensively — [264] When You Were a Boy unmindful of the discrepancy evident between your denial and your excuse. "If you'd let me shoot I'd have got him," declares Hen, unplacated. You proceed to load. Hen moodily holds aloof from helping you ram, and you regain in some measure your lost caste only when you offer him the privilege of the ammunition flasks. These he dons, and by this little touch of diplomacy you smooth over his ill humor. Together you and he scout along the crispy ridge, ever on the qui vive for another mark, beast or bird. Crows scold. Ah, if you could but bag a crow! But they always flap off too soon. Bluejays jeer. You would stop that mighty quick if they would give you a chance. But they don't. Even woodpeckers fight shy of that mimical, albeit not unerring, gun. The gun aforesaid is now growing so heavy that the fact cannot be ignored. You balance it on one portion of your anatomy, and on another; yet the more it weighs and the sharper wax its angles, and you can secure no lasting ease. "I'll carry it," volunteers Hen, prompt to take advantage of your significant manoeuvers. [265] When You Were a Boy "Uh-uh," you decline stanchly. You com- promise by suggesting, in a moment, with off- hand bluffness: "Say, let's sit down a while. There's nothin' up here to shoot." "Naw," responds Hen, "I'll tell you — let's shoot woodchucks!" The idea appeals. After "shooting" wood- peckers, "shooting" woodchucks ought to prove a pleasing diversion. With the gun as angular as ever, but with your hunting instincts piqued anew, you fol- lowed while Hen led to the nearest woodchuck hole: that burrow under the stump on the side of the hill, across from Squire Lucas's pasture; a matchless lair for an old 'chuck such as was the occupant, whence he could sally forth and wallow in the squire's clover to his heart's and stomach's content. Many a covetous glance had the boys of town and country cast toward this burrow; many a fruitless attack had silly dogs made upon its unresponsive portals; from time to time fresh earth about the entrance popularly indi- cated that the 'chuck was enlarging and re- modeling his apartments, and it was commonly believed that he had tunneled clear through the [266] When You Were a Boy hill: laughing to scorn the foes that vainly com- passed him about, he lived and fattened, and spoiled as much clover as he could. With bated breath and gingerly tread, you and Hen sneaked to ambush under cover of the zigzag rail fence that diagonally skirted the foot of the hill, before the woodchuck's dwelling. Ah, how many other boys had lurked there, for hope springs eternal. You trained your grim weapon upon the region of the hole. You allowed Hen to have a squint adown the trusty, and rusty, barrel. "Gee! I bet that'll pepper him!" com- mended Hen; and laying aside his flasks he equipped himself with a rock in each hand, for aiding in the proposed job. Very peaceful and cozy was it there, against the fence, with Indian Summer (in retrospect, those falls were all Indian Summer) around you, the warm sun shining upon you, and the warm grass and pungent weeds an elastic cushion underneath. It was an agreeable change, to surrender your gun to the fence, and relax. "Sh!" whispered Hen, angrily, when you sought to straighten a leg. [267] When You Were a Boy "I don't believe he's comin' out," you whis- pered back. "Yes, he will," averred Hen. "Maybe he doesn't stay there any more," you hazarded anxiously. "Course he does!" "Maybe he's gone to sleep for the winter, though." "Sh! Shut up! He won't come out as long as you're talkin'!" You subsided, and with cheekbone glued to the gunstock, and eyes ferociously glaring along the barrel, at the hole beyond, you expectantly bided the first rash movement on the part of Mr. 'Chuck. In the meantime, what of that woodchuck? Lured afield by the pleasant weather, from his predatory tour he was leisurely returning — halting now to nuzzle amidst the stubble, now to scratch — for a mid-day nap within his sub- terrene retreat. He waddled into a dried ditch and out again, slipped through his private wicket in a boundary hedge, and gradually working up the slope was approaching his home, on the side opposite to your rail fence, when Hen, suddenly espying him, was as- [268] When You Were a Boy toimded into the yelp: "There he is! Shoot! Shoot!" Startled into immobility, the woodchuck stared about with quivering whiskers and bulging eyes. Boys! As in a dream, you vaguely saw a squat, furry shape, a cleft, vibrant nose and two broad, yellow teeth; and with the remembrance that your gun was pointing in the general direction of this combination, you desperately tugged at the trigger. Your sole thought was to "shoot, shoot," the quicker the better. The report was the thing. But no report came. The trigger would not budge. "Darn it ! You old fool, you ! You ain't got it cocked !" shrieked Hen, grabbing at your weapon. With a whistle of decision the woodchuck bolted for sanctuary. He clawed, he slid, he sprawled, all at once. Hen frenziedly delivered both rocks. The 'chuck, at the mouth of his burrow, in a second more would have swung on the pivot of his four short, stout little legs and have whisked in like a brindled streak, when, having succeeded in cocking your piece, you blindly let go — bang ! [269] When You Were a Boy The butt slammed you under the chin, knock- ing your teeth together upon your lower lip. You noted it not. "We got him! We got him!" Thus Hen, tumbling over the rail fence, was wildly bellowing — with a pardonable extension of the subject pronoun. " Hurrah!" You were on your feet in a twinkling, and were dashing in the wake of Hen, up the incline, midway of which, just below the stump, on his side lay the woodchuck, limp and still. Hen circumspectly reached and stirred him with the tip of a toe; then, emboldened into the attitude of victor, recklessly kicked him. "He's dead!" "Je-rusalem! I should say he was!" you agreed, poking the inert mass. " Wasn't that a dandy shot, though?" "You bet!" praised Hen. And so it was — considering the attendant circumstances. Gloatingly you and Hen examined your prize, inch by inch, investigating him from his two front teeth to his scraggly tail. Most of all did you gloat upon the blood, striking proof of your [270] When You Were a Boy valor, and ere you had finished you well-nigh could have drawn a diagram of the shot holes. 'Twas established that the aim had been per- fect (yourself demonstrating to Hen precisely what had been your course of action), that the gun had shot tremendously, and that the wood- chuck was a very prodigy of size and strength. Poor 'chuck! He had made his last foray, long enough had he dared to live, and now, despite his cunning, he had fallen to a boy who shut both eyes before firing. Homeward, is it? Certainly! Nothing is left to be gained on the trail. With the stride of conquerors, you and Hen march through the village — you with gun and ammunition flasks, Hen with the woodchuck, which he has appro- priated, dangling by the tail. "Well, well! Where did you get that fellow?" query the men. "Oh, John and me shot him," explains Hen. "Crickety, but ain't he a big one! How'd you get him?" query the boys. "We shot him! And he was runnin', too!" boasts Hen. "Aw, you found him!" "Didn't neither — did we, John ? You come [271] When You Were a Boy here and I'll show you the shot holes in him!" So, side by side, you and Hen gallantly stepped, with the visible tokens of your calling, homeward bound. At the entrance to your alley, however, Hen inclined to lag; and as the back yard was being traversed he fell further behind. Your own pace was slower and less confident, now. Hen flung you the woodchuck. "I've got to go," he maintained. "You can take him." The back door opened, and mother stood and gazed upon you, even as Hen was discreetly retiring. "John!" she said. "What have you been doing?" Beneath its powder grime your face paled. At once you began to realize how your lip was puffing, and how your shoulder was aching, "We were huntin' woodchucks," you qua- vered. "The idea!" said mother. "We got one, too," you offered, in piteous defense. "Mercy!" exclaimed mother, at the sight. [272] When You Were a Boy "Leave it right there, and come straight into the house!" "Ya-a-a!" bantered Hen, gleefully, from the other side of the fence. "You're goin' to ketch it!" Here the door closed behind you, shutting you in with your shame. [273] A BOY'S LOVES A BOY'S LOVES IN the utmost beginning of things — in that time when roosters were very large, and geese were very fierce, and only mother could avert the thousand perils, heal the thousand wounds — ex- isted a mythical partner established in family annals as "Your Little Sweetheart." "Annie? Don't you re- member Annie ! Why, she was Your Little Sweetheart. You used to play together day in and day out. It was so cute to see you!" But no. You may catch here a bit of blue ribbon, there an echo of a laugh, yet, try as you will, you may not recall her. Evidently when Your Little Sweetheart Annie was put away along with [277] When You Were a Boy dresses and curls, she was put away so far that she was lost forever. What space of months, or of years, elapses, you cannot tell. Nevertheless, suddenly you do witness yourself, still of age most immature, (you recollect that somewhere in this period you were miserably spelled down on "fish"), laying votive offerings upon the desk of your First Love, a girl with brown eyes and rounded, rosy cheeks. These offerings are in the shape of bright pearl but- tons and carnelian pebbles. The transfer requires much breathless daring. Down the aisle of the school-room you march, your gift tightly clutched in your hand, which swings carelessly by your side. Past her seat you scuttle, and, without a single glance, you leave the treasure upon the oaken top, beneath her eyes. Away you hurry, affrighted, ashamed, apprehensive, but hopeful. Presently, blushing, from your seat you steal a look across at her. She smiles roguishly. The offering is gone. It is accepted; for she holds it up that you may see. And you grin back, as red as a beet, [278] When You Were a Boy while your heart, exultant, goes thumpity, thumpity, thumpity. In company with another boy, who must have been a rival, you descry yourself hanging about her gate, turning somersaults, wrestling, and performing all kinds of monkey-shines, in the brazen fancy that she may be peeking out of a window and admiring you. She is framed, for an instant, by the pane. You and he scamper up and deposit in plain view — you upon the right gate-post, he upon the left — a handful apiece of hazelnuts. Then the pair of you withdraw to a discreet distance and wait. Out she trips, and gathers in your handful; but his she disdainfully sweeps off upon the ground. He whooped in contempt and swaggered in derision ; and you — you — what was it you did ? Alas! the picture is cut here abruptly, as by a knife; the First Love vanishes, and the Second Love succeeds. She is the minister's daughter, a gentle, win- some little lass, not at all like the saucebox of the brown eyes and the rich cheeks. In the case of this Second Love there seems to have been no studied wooing, no sheepish bribery by pearl buttons and carnelians and nuts. You [ 2 79] When You Were a Boy fall in with each other as a matter of course. In playing drop-the-handkerchief you nearly always favor her, and she you ; and when either favors some one else the understanding between you is perfect that this is done merely for the sake of appearances. Your mutual affection is of the telepathic order. Others in the party may romp and squeal and shout in the moonlight, but you and she sit together on the wheelbarrow, and look on in tolerant, eloquent silence. In games you have occasionally kissed just the tip of her ear, and that was sufficient. Teasing companions may cry: "Aw, kiss her! Fraidie! fraidie! That ain't kissin'!" But you know she knows, and smacks — those boisterous smacks current in the realm — are superfluous. In addition to the kissing games, and the state of exaltation upon the wheelbarrow, you are able to conjure up yourself in another role : at the frozen river's edge, strapping on her skates — your first remembered gallantry. Assailed by the shrill scoffings of your rude comrades, under the refining influence of love you kneel before her as she is struggling with a stiff buckle. Like to the manner born, she [280] When You Were a Boy permits you to assist. Then — then you skated, you and she, for each other's sake enduring all the pursuing gibes? This point is not clear. You may not further linger with her, the min- ister's daughter, your Second Love, for in a hop, skip, and jump you are worshiping at the skirts of the Third Love. Her eyes are black — large and black. You are desperately smitten. You live, move, and have your being in a very ecstasy of fervor. Her name is Lillian. Somewhere, somehow, you have run upon the lines |j of Tennyson: " Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Clasps her tiny hands above me; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian." ~, ' r /jr^Z^-?iP They appeal to you. They touch a spot which seems not to be reached bv even J Oliver Optic or "The Gorilla Hunters." You must have poetry, and you memorize them, and repeat them over and over [28O When You Were a Boy to yourself, regardless of the fact that she, your inspiration, is neither airy, fairy, nor flitting, but of substantial, buxom proportions. The Third Love, with her bold black eyes and her generous plumpness, is not so sub- missive as was that gentle Second Love. She flouts you. When the mood is upon her, she makes faces at you. At a party, when you stammer: " The stars are shining bright; May I see you home to-night? " as like as not she turns up her nose, or else she tosses her head and snaps ungraciously: "Oh, I s'pose so!" You never are sure of her; yet always you find yourself meekly at her apron-strings. You willingly go to church (you conceive that your family does not know why, but in this you are much mistaken), because she sits in front of you. What a blissful, comfortable feeling you have, with her safely installed near at hand, twitching her short braids not more than three feet before your happy nose! When the pew is filled to overflowing, then, sometimes, you are crowded out into her pew. [282] When You Were a Bo 1 Embarrassed of mien, you decorously slide into your new location, she receiving your presence with a shrug and a sniff, and you growing redder and redder as you imagine that all the congre- gation must be reading your secret. In a moment she darts at you a sly glance (the coquette! How vastly superior she is to you in the wiles of love!), and you swell and swell, until it seems to you that you are towering into the raftered heights above. And at the conspicuousness thus entailed you blush yet deeper. Ah, her folks are about to leave town; she is to move away I The news comes with sickening directness, and on top of the announcement she pitilessly asserts that she is glad. You muster courage to declare that you are "going to write." She flirts her bangs, and retorts grudgingly: "/ don't care." Which is all the good-by that you get. Beyond childish notes, you never have written to a girl; and what a bothersome time this first letter gives you! The chief trouble lies in the start. "Dear Friend," which appears to be the address sanctioned by society, is too common- place and formal; "Dear Lillian" may err in [283] When You Were a Boy the other direction, she is ridiculously touchy. You want something unique, and in your re- searches you encounter "Cherie" — where, history reveals not. "Cherie" sounds nice; you do not know what it means, but all the better, for consequently it is finely ambiguous; and, proud of your origi- nality, you take it. Once started, you occupy four pages, in your scrawl- ing script, with what you deem to be clever badinage. Badinage is the main con- versational stock in trade of girl-and-boy days. Principally you rail her about a certain youth of your town with whom she used, to your torment, to run races. You hope that she will reply in a manner to convey that really she despised that other chap and is longing for you. Two weeks of waiting. Then, one noon, your father, with an arch remark, fishes from an inside pocket a little square envelope, and passes it to you, at the dinner-table. The dinner-table, of all public places! [284] £jj&dl= When You Were a Boy You endeavor calmly to receive it with a cursory glance ; but you deposit it in your jacket well aware that your trembling frame emanates confusion. Having bolted your dinner, you retire to the barn loft to revel in the missive. The double sheet of miniature stationery has a rosebud imprinted at the top. Alas! underneath are the thorns. Friend Will: No, I don't have George Brown to run races with any more, but I have somebody lots better, and we run races every night. Don't you wish you knew who it was, smartie ? Even yet the lines rankle. They but indicate the tenor of the whole letter — a letter from which you failed, no matter how earnestly you pored over it, to obtain one grain of comfort. You try her again, with another clumsy essay at wit. Answer never ccmes, and for a while you sneak about afraid that the truth will leak out, and you be made a butt by your school- mates. The queen is dead! Live the queen! This [285] When You Were a Boy Fourth Love is a "new girl," a stranger who one morn dawns upon your vision in the school- room. She is an adorable creature, with blue eyes, golden hair, and a bridling air that chal- lenges your attention. With joy you learn, at home, that your folks know her folks; and when your mother proposes that you go with her to make a friendly call, so that "the little girl won't get lonesome for want of acquaintances," you accede unhesitatingly. You are presented at court, and, sitting with her upon the sofa, do your best to be enter- taining while the elders chat about "help" and church. You grasp, from her sprightly re- marks, that she is well accustomed to boy admirers. She speaks of her "fellow"! She writes to him! He "felt awful bad" to have her leave! Beside hers, your experience in the ways of the world — particularly boy-ways and girl-ways, mingled - - appears pitifully meager, and beneath her assertions and giggling sallies you are ofttimes ill at ease. Impressed with her value, you depart, escort- ing your mother; and that night, before you go to sleep, you firmly resolve to win this girl or perish. [286] When You Were a Boy The Fourth Love resolves into a sad thing of mawkish sentiment. You are not given to mooning or spooning. You are too healthy. Drop-the-handkerchief, clap-in and clap-out, post-office — these tumultuous kissing games, open and aboveboard, are the alpha and omega of the caresses in your set. However, the new girl instils another element, hitherto foreign to the so- cial intercourse. To-day you recall, with great vividness, that winter evening before supper, when you lingered, on your way home, in the front hall at her house, planning with her to go skating. "Oh, isn't it dark!" she piped suddenly, can't see you at all." "And I can't see you, either," you sponded. Silence. "Where are you?" she whispered. " Oh, I'm here by the door. Are you 'fraid ? " you bantered innocently. Silence. [287] "I re- When You Were a Boy "S'posing you kissed me! Wouldn't that be awful!" she tittered in pretended horror. But you — you summoned your chivalry, and went forth secure in the knowledge that you had not taken advantage of her helplessness. This was the end. From that evening dated her coldness. Another boy jumped in and supplanted you. You encountered them to- gether, and they looked upon you and laughed. He informed you that she said you " hadn't any sense." You sent back a counter-accusation, which he gladly reported. But enough; away with this Eve. What becomes of her you are able to decipher not. Let us consider the Fifth Love. Her you acquire deliberately, with purpose aforethought, so to speak. A love is now abso- lutely necessary to you, and casting about, you hit upon the girl across the street. You have known her virtually all your life. She is not very pretty; she is just a plain, jolly, wholesome lassie, who is continually running over to your house, and with whom you are as free as with your own sister; but she will do. Forthwith you begin a campaign. You walk home with her; you lend her books; you take [288] When You Were a Boy her riding — a real, ceremonious ride, and not, as formerly, merely a lift down-town ; you strive as hard as you can to enthuse over her and remark beauties in her. And she, meantime a little flustered and astonished at your unwonted assiduousness, accepts your crafty attentions and frankly confides to your sister that she wishes she had a brother. Unsuspicious girl! She treats you with a camaraderie which should warn you, but which only proves your undoing. Mindful of the lesson gained at the hands of the Fourth Love, she the sentimental, you re- solve that you will not be classed, in this present instance, as having "no sense." Accordingly, one evening, upon parting with the Fifth Love at her gate, you baldly propose — well, you blurt awkwardly: "Let's kiss good night." With what scorn she spurns the suggestion! Then, while your ears are afire and you hang your head, she administers a severe, virtuous lecture upon the impropriety of an act such as you mention. " But lots of boys and girls do it," you hazard. She does not believe you; and, anyway, she [ 289 ] When You Were a Boy never would. And she packs you home. You trudge across the street, angry, irritated, abashed, uncertain as to whether she was hoaxing you or whether she was sincere. Girls are the darndest creatures! Evidently here closes the episode of the Fifth Love. It was but natural that thereafter you should be rather disconcerted when in her presence; and although she might act as if nothing had happened, you (plagued un- mercifully by your sister) »M; / could not forget. And the Sixth Love ? Yes, she followed, with scarce a decent interval, hard upon the exit of the all too high-minded Fifth. Maybe it was in a spirit of pique that you sought her. Whatever the preliminary circum- stance, regard yourself eventually head over heels again, immersed in the current of a pas- sion equaled only by your affair with that Third Love — "cruel little Lilian." This Sixth Love, too, has black eyes and an engaging plumpness. Black eyes, apparently, are the eyes most fatal to you. For the Sixth [290] When You Were a Boy Love you would unflinchingly die, if life without her were the alternative; and you picture to yourself the manner in which she would mourn (you hope) when you are lying cold and still, with just your white face showing, in the family parlor. No matter how circuitous it makes your route, going and coming you always manage to pass her house. You wonder if she is proud of you because you can throw a curve. You would like to have her see that you are strong, and skilled in all the exercises to which boys are heir. You want to be her ideal, her knight. Some times you suspect that she does not thoroughly appreciate your prowess and good points, for she prates of other boys who do so and so, whereas you can easily do as much and more. Now, whether or not it was due to the snake- curves (every boy is positive, soon or late, that he can throw a snake-curve), looking back you [291 ] When You Were a Boy behold yourself possessed at last of this maiden of your choice. Of course no word of love has been uttered between you. That would be too silly and theatrical, almost morbid ; furthermore, it is unnecessary. She has shyly confessed to you that she " likes" you, and this is sufficient. You generously refrain from urging her beyond this maiden admission. Aye, 't is distance lends enchantment to the view! You have been so accustomed to the excitement of the chase that with idleness you wax restive. The Sixth Love verges upon being a nuisance. Her black eyes, beaming for you alone, pall upon you. You grow callous toward her. You tire of always having her choose you at parties; you tire of her eternal assumption of proprietorship over you; you wish that she would not come so much to see your sister, and thrust herself upon you in your home. And you set out to shake her off; you skip by the back door as she enters by the front; you avoid her at parties; you show her, in a dozen ways, that you do not fancy her any more. Poor anxious, forsaken Sixth Love ! It is she who turns the wooer; it is she who passes and repasses your house; it is she who haunts your [292] When You Were a Boy steps, hoping that she may catch a glimpse of you. Regardless of the fact that you yourself so often have played this game, you remain obdurate. Finally pride rises to her rescue, and she sends notice that she " hates you." "Pooh! Who cares!" you sniff, with a curl of the lip. Thus lapses behind you the Sixth Love; and although you have a faint vision of her parading, to meet your eyes, your most despised enemy, whom, in bravado, she had immediately adopted, memory indicates that you were unaffected by the sight, save to sneer, and that already the Seventh Love was engrossing your attention. For there was a Seventh Love, and an Eighth, and more besides, to constitute a long train of wee, innocent heart-troubles as evanescent as a dream, but at their time just as real; until from this series of shallow, dancing ripples of Boy's Love, lo! one day you suddenly emerged upon the deep ocean of Man's Love, and anchored in the quiet haven where She awaited — She, the gracious embodiment of the best in these her girlish predecessors. [ 2 93] NOON NOON AFTER all, it is no fun posing at being a man. It is not, as you would inform the other boys, the pleasant sinecure that it is cur- rently presumed to be, amongst your kind. The picture has more depth than appears at the distance. As you approach, you note only the surface tints; but when you have arrived, then begin to unfold aspects previously quite unsuspected. So now, having had experience, you fain would turn back, and doffing for all time those starchy, heavy, strait-jacket garments which you have mistakenly donned, you would re- sume the free-and-easy blouse and knicker- bockers and tattered brim, and would rejoin your gay brethren of school and vacation. You have learned your lesson, and you will leave them no more. So be it. But alas, unavailingly you stop on [297] When You Were a Boy your way down-town, beside the vacant lot where the other boys are playing ball, and look wistfully in upon them. None yells: "Come on, Jocko. You're tenth fielder." Once the ball rolls your way. You toss it back — toss it awkwardly, somehow, proving that you are out of practice. However, you can limber up right speedily. You have been away, they should know. "Aw, you're out! You're out! You are too! Ask that man. He's out, ain't he, Mister?" You wait for "that man," wherever he may be, to reply. But you yourself are the sole spectator, and you gaze right and left, puzzled. "He's out — ain't he!" You! It is you to whom they are appealing! You nod, confusedly. "Ya-a-a! The man says you're out!" The man ! The word gives you a little shock. They are styling you "man"! A sensation of disappointment and surprise sweeps through you; here you are, Rip Van Winkle, whom nobody knows. If only these your former cronies might see through and recognize what lies behind this thin disguise, they would realize that you really are but ten, and one of them. [298] When You Were a Boy All in the broad sun the other boys are "goin' fishin'." It is a prime day. Your being tingles for the poise of the trusty old pole upon your shoulder, and the feel of the fat bait-can in your jacket pocket. Hang business! You re- pudiate its tyranny. That " engagement" may importune, in vain. The perch are running, the kids are "all catchin' 'em," " fishin'" is " dandy." Hurrah! The old-time wanderlust is stirring in your veins. You will go. But — something holds you back. It will not be much fun to fish alone. Something tells you that even though you "fire" your shoes and stockings and strip to shirt and trousers, and boldly enter the fray, still will you be an alien, and looked upon askance. You are a "man," and perch and bullheads are not for the likes of you. Nevertheless, you can try. There hastens Hen — or, at least, one who might be Hen — pattering down the street, all accoutered for the ranks of joy and rivalry. "Goin' fishin'?" you demand bluffly. "Yes, sir." "Sir!" In a word has he relegated you to your place. He knows you — knows that you have no fish-worms in your pocket, and that to [299] When You Were a Boy match his mighty pole you have only a paltry jointed "rod." He pauses impatiently. He has little time to waste with you. "Any good?" "Yes, sir." Irksomely respectful, now with a wriggle he is off, onward into his magic realms, leaving you to gaze after, chastened, chagrined. Oh, this hideous disguise — this iron meta- morphosis which wizard Time, the inexorable, has laid upon you! There is no dropping it. You turn to Nature; surely Nature has the acumen to recognize that you have grown not at all, save, perhaps, in stature. But the sun burns, the rain wets, the snow chills — each uncompromising and austere. The pond that once stretched away like an ocean shrinks and shallows at your coming, till you can almost step from bank to bank; the once limitless wood, as wild and as romantic as the Carpathians, mischievously contracts so that you can see through from side to side ; the highroad is dusty, and the paths refuse to lead, but are finished in a stride. Everything conspires to remind you that you are foreign, Brobdingnagian, a [3°°] When You Were a Boy personage apart, and that too late have you faced about. To the pleasures and to the favors that were you have forfeited the "Open, sesame!" You may not reinstate yourself by the com- pany that you keep, for the company of old — where is it? Vanished; changed, like yourself; resistlessly urged on and ever on by the current which there is no stemming. Hen is a "man" — he runs a grocery store. Billy Lunt is a "man" --and an M.D., to boot. "Fat" Day is a "man" — even an alderman. "Snoopie" Mitchell, aye, the independent, envied Snoopie, whom naught, you believed, could coerce, is a "man" — for sometimes you are whirled along behind his engine. They all seem to glory in their estate and its attributes. And to them, you are a "man." Exists only one authority to support your quest of boyhood; only one heart, besides your own, which apparently would be glad to have you again in blouse and knickerbockers; and to her you are still a boy, with the freckles con- cealed, merely, by that pointed beard at which she gently rails even in her pride. Mother! You can depend upon mother, as of yore. She [3 01 ] When You Were a Boy is no older, herself; she is the same. Mother never changes. You are no older, yourself; you are the same. Let the other boys call you "man" and say "sir"; let sun and rain and snow, and pond and wood and path, deny you their one-time hospitality. To all the world without you may be a "man," but to mother you are her "boy." Yet Time, forsooth, wrests even this anchor- age from you. Comes an hour when, confronted by the inevitable, helpless in its grip, unrecon- ciled even in your resignation, you dully stand by a bedside and wait — wait — wait. Suddenly the eyes open and look up into yours with understanding. The graying, wrin- kled face faintly smiles. "What a great big boy you are getting to be, Johnny," she murmurs, in vague surprise. That is all. She is gone, and with her departs your last hold upon the things that were. Your morning is passed forever. It is noon. You must turn away, irrevocably the man. THE END [3°2] THE POET MISS KATE AND I BY MARGARET P. MONTAGUE Handsomely Decorated and Illustrated. Net, $1.50 Postage, 10 cents It is impossible to convey the charm of this mountain tale with its flashes of humor, its intimate touches of nature, and its delicate love story. It is an idyl. Xot only is the story an ex- ceptionally charming one in itself, but the book is one of the most at- tractive of the season in point of manufacture. The binding and fron- tispiece in rich color, the page decora- rations in green, and the numerous illustrations, fit the book admirably. THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO. 33-37 East 17th Street, New York A CHRISTMAS CAROL AND THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH BY CHARLES DICKENS With Introduction and Illustrations in Color and Line, by George Alfred Williams. 4to, $2.00 Mr. Williams is best known to the pub- lic as the artist of "Ten Boys from Dickens " and " Ten Girls from Dick- ens." His interpretation of the men and women, and the abandonment of grotesque caricatures for the portrayal of the more human side of the char- acters, marks a new era in Dickens illustrations. The book is printed in two colors, hand- somely bound, and is the most attrac- tive edition of the popular Dickens Christmas Books which has yet ap- peared. THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO. 33-37 East 17th Street, New York Lexi you v. r tre a boy I M13739 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY mmmm wllmL JMH&aKa yiiiip iiliL Illlll "•:■■■■■•'•' ' ; •'■■ War ■ H In