Chit-Chat; Nirvana; The Searchlight

Winter of 1918. Mt. Adamello Sled Dogs, Veterans of the Italian Army.

I thought to write a book entitled: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. How much is buried in the wreckage of yesterday—how uninteresting today is and how little is to be done—our burden we shift to the strong, young shoulders of tomorrow; tomorrow of the big heart, who in kindness hides our sorrows and whispers only of hope. I ended by writing,—this—which I have called Chit-Chat, thus classifying the book, knowing that such a book if true to name will picture the age and find a publisher.
I have read in the Arabian Book of Knowledge that thoughts are Tartars, vagabonds; imprison all thou canst not slay, and have seen fit to follow this suggestion and the advice given a Turkish author—
That none may dub thee tactless dund'rhead, Confine thy pen to light chit-chat, And rattle on as might a letter! For ninety-nine of every hundred Hate learning and what's more than that, The hundredth man likes berresh better.
So I present to you, gentle or gallant reader, as the case may be, and quite informally, John Cornwall.
He was born at 702 West Chestnut Street, Louisville, Kentucky, on the 12th day of May, 1872. His mother was a widow; and before the days of H. C. L, the two lived comfortably on her income of $1,800.00 a year.
His boyhood was as that of other boys of the city; an era of happiness and happiness has no history. He was considered a good boy as boys go; and good boys have few adventures.
Although John never attended Sunday School except when his mother made him—as she was a Presbyterian, he wore the honor pin for an unbroken three-year attendance.
School to him was such a delight, that in a spirit of emulative self-denial, he never started from home, a block away, until a minute before the tardy bell rang. He usually made it. If late, he slipped in, usually walking backwards, hoping either to escape observation or, if seen, to be told to retake his seat.