DREAMLAND.
THE WAKING SOUL
Larry lay under the trees upon the soft, green grass, with his hat tilted far forward over his eyes and his grimy hands clasped together beneath his head, wishing with all his might first one thing and then another, but always that it was not so warm.
When the children had gone to school in the morning, they had seen Larry's figure, as they passed along the street, stretched out full-length beneath the trees near the gutter curbstone; and when they returned, there he was still. They looked at him with curiosity; and some of the boys even paused beside him and bent over to see if he were sunstruck. He let them talk about him and discuss him and wonder at him as they would, never stirring, and scarcely daring to breathe, lest they be induced to stay and question him. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to lie lazily under the trees, and watch the sunbeams as they flirted with the leaves, and hear the birds gossip with one another, and feel the breeze as it touched his hot temples and soothed him with its soft caresses.
Across the street, upon some one's fence-rail, climbed a honeysuckle vine; and every now and then Larry caught a whiff of a faint perfume as the breeze flitted by. He wished the breeze would carry heavier loads of it and come oftener. It was tantalizing to get just one breath and no more in this way.
But then, that was always the case with Larry; he seemed to get a hint of so many things, and no more than that of any. Often when he was lying as he was now, under green trees, beneath blue skies, he would see the most beautiful pictures before his eyes. Sometimes they were the clouds that drew them for him, and sometimes the trees. He would, perhaps, be feeling particularly forlorn and tired, and would fling himself down to rest, and then in a moment—just for all the world as though the skies were sorry for him and wanted to help him forget his troubles—he would see the white drifts overhead shift and change, and there would be the vision of a magnificent man larger and more beautiful than any mortal; and then Larry would hold his breath in ecstasy, while the man's face grew graver and darker, and his strong arm seemed to lift and beckon to something from afar, and then from out a great stack of clouds would break one milk-white one which, when Larry looked closer, would prove to be a colossal steed; and in an instant, in the most remarkable way, the form of the man would be mounted upon the back of the courser and then would be speeding off toward the west. And then Larry would lose sight of them, just at the very moment when he would have given worlds to see more; for by this time the skies would have grown black, perhaps, and down would come the rain in perfect torrents, sending Larry to his feet and scuttling off into somebody's area-way for shelter. And there he would crouch and think about his vision, fancying to himself his great warrior doing battle with the sea; the sea lashing up its wave-horses till they rose high upon their haunches, their gray backs curving outward, their foamy manes a-quiver, their white forelegs madly pawing the air, till with a wild whinny they would plunge headlong upon the beach, to be pierced by the thousand rain-arrows the cloud-god sent swirling down from above, and sink backward faint and trembling to be overtaken and trampled out of sight by the next frenzied column behind.
Oh! it sent Larry's blood tingling through his veins to see it all so plainly; and he did not feel the chill of his wet rags about him, nor the clutch of hunger in his poor, empty stomach, when the Spirit of the Storm rode out, before his very eyes, to wage his mighty war. And then at other times it would all be quite different, and he would see the figures of beautiful maidens in gossamer garments, and they would seem to be at play, flinging flecks of sunlight this way and that, or winding and unwinding their flaky veils to fling them saucily across the face of the sun.
But none of these wondrous visions lasted. They remained long enough to wake in Larry's heart a great longing for more, and then they would disappear and he would be all the lonelier for the lack of them. That was the greatest of his discouragements. What would he care for heat or cold or hunger or thirst if he could only capture these fleeting pictures once for all, so that he could always gaze at them and dream over them and make them his forever!
That was one of the things for which Larry was wishing as he lay under the trees that summer day. He was thinking: "If there was only some way of getting them down from there! It seems to me I 'd do anything in the world to be able to get them down from there. I—."
"No, you would n't," said a low voice next his ear,—"no, you would n't. You 'd lie here and wish and wonder all day long, but you would n't take the first step to bring your pictures down from heaven."
For a moment Larry was so mightily surprised that he found himself quite at a loss for words, for there was no one near to be seen who could possibly have addressed him; but presently he gained voice to say,—
"Oh, I know I could n't get 'em o' course. Folks can't reach up and bring clouds down out o' de sky."
"I did n't say anything about clouds nor about the sky," returned the voice. "I was speaking about pictures and heaven. Folks can reach up and bring pictures down out of heaven. It's done every day. Geniuses do it."
"Who is geniuses?" asked untaught Larry.
"People who can get near enough heaven to catch glimpses of its wonderful beauty and paint it on canvas or carve it in marble for the world to see, or who hear snatches of its music and set them upon paper for the world to hear; and they are called artists and sculptors and composers and poets."
"What takes 'em up to heaven?" queried Larry.
"Inspiration," answered the voice.
"I don't know o' that. I never seen it," the boy returned. "Is it death?"
"No; it is life. But you would n't understand if I could explain it, which I cannot. No one understands it. But it is there just the same. You have it, but you do not know how to use it yet. You never will unless you do something besides lie beneath the trees and dream. Why can't you do something?"
"Oh, I'm tired with all the things I 'm not doin'!" said Larry, in his petulant, whimsical way.
For a little the voice was silent, and Larry was beginning to fear it had fled and deserted him like all the rest; when it spoke again, in its low-toned murmur, like the breath of a breeze, and said,—
"It is cruel to make a good wish and then leave it to wander about the world weak and struggling; always trying to be fulfilled and never succeeding because it is not given strength enough. It makes a nameless want in the world, and people's hearts ache for it and long to be satisfied. They somehow feel there is somewhere a blessing that might be blesseder, a beauty that should be more beautiful. It is then that the little unfledged wish is near, and they feel its longing to be made complete,—to be given wings and power to rise to heaven. Yes; one ought not to make a good wish and let it go,—not to perish (for nothing is lost in this world), but to be unfulfilled forever. One ought to strengthen it day by day until it changes from a wish to an endeavor, and then day by day from an endeavor to an achievement, and then the world is better for it and glad of it, and its record goes above. If all the people who wish to do wonderful things did them, how blessed it would be! If all the people who wish to be good were good, ah, then there would be no more disappointment nor tears nor heartache in the world!"
Larry pondered an instant after the voice had ceased, and then said slowly: "I kind o' think I know what you mean. You think I 'd ought to be workin'. But what could I do? There ain't nothin' I could be doin'."
"Did n't I hear you complaining of me a little while ago, because I did not carry heavy enough loads of honeysuckle scent and did not come often enough? I carried all I was able to bear, for I am not very strong nowadays, and I came as often as I could. In fact, I did my best the first thing that came to hand. I want you to do the same. That is duty. I don't bear malice toward you because you were dissatisfied with me. You did not know. If you tried the best you could and people complained, you ought not to let their discontent discourage you. I brought you a whiff of perfume; you can bring some one a sincere effort. By and by, when I am stronger and can blow good gales and send the great ships safely into port and waft to land the fragrant smell of their spicy cargo, you may be doing some greater work and giving the world something it has been waiting for."
"The world don't wait for things," said Larry. "It goes right on; it does n't care. I 'm hungry and ragged, and I have n't no place to sleep; but the world ain't a-waitin' fer me ter get things ter eat, ner clo'es to me back, ner a soft bed. It ain't a-waiting fer nothin', as I can see."
"It does not stand still," replied the voice; "but it is waiting, nevertheless. If you are expecting a dear, dear person—your mother, for instance—"
"I ain't got no mother," interrupted Larry, with a sorrowful sigh; "she died."
"Well, then—your sister," suggested the voice.
"I ain't got no sister. I ain't got nobody. I 'm all by meself," insisted the boy.
"Then suppose, for years and years you have been dreaming of a friend who is to fill your world with beauty as no one else could do,—who among all others in the world will be the only one who could show you how fair life is. While you would not stand still and do nothing what time you were watching for her coming, you would be always waiting for her, and when she was there you would be glad. That is how the world feels about its geniuses,—those whom it needs to make it more wonderful and great. It is waiting for you. Don't disappoint it. It would make you sad unto death if the friend of whom you had dreamed should not come at last, would it not?"
Larry nodded his head in assent. "Does it always know 'em?" he asked. "I mean does the world always be sure when the person comes, it 's the one it dreamed of? Mebbe I'd be dreamin' of some one who was beautiful, and mebbe the real one would n't look like what I thought, and I 'd let her go by."
"Ah, little Lawrence, the world has failed so too. It has let its beloved ones go by; and then, when it was too late, it has called after them in pleading to return. They never come back, but the world keeps repeating their names forever. That is its punishment and their fame."
"What does it need me for?" asked Larry.
"It needs you to paint for it the pictures you see amid the clouds and on the earth."
"Can't they see 'em?" queried the boy.
"No, not as you can. Their sight is not clear enough. God wants them to know of it, and so He sends them you to make it plain to them. It is as though you went to a foreign country where the people's speech was strange to you. You could not know their meaning unless some one who understood their language and yours translated it for you. He would be the only one who could make their meaning clear to you. He would be an interpreter."
"How am I to get that thing you spoke about that 'd take me up to heaven, so's I could bring down the beautiful things I see?" inquired Larry. "Where is it?"
"Inspiration?" asked the voice. "That is everywhere,—all about you, within and without you. You have only to pray to be given sight clear enough to see it and power to use it. But now I must leave you. I have given you my message; give the world yours. Good-by, Lawrence, good-by;" and the voice had ceased.
Larry stretched out his hands and cried, "Come back, oh, come back!"
But the echo of his own words was all he heard in response. He lay quite motionless and still for some time after that, thinking about all the voice had said to him, and when finally he pushed his hat back from before his eyes, he saw the starlit sky smiling down upon him benignantly. And then, from behind a dark cloud he saw the radiant moon appear, and it seemed to him like the most beautiful woman's face he could imagine, peering out from the shadow of her own dusky hair to welcome the night.
He got upon his feet as well as he could, for he was very stiff with lying so long, and stumbled on toward some dark nook or cranny where he could huddle unseen until the morning; his head full of plans for the morrow, and his heart beating high with courage and hope.
He would dream no more, but labor. He would work at the first thing that came to hand, and then, perhaps, that wonderful thing which the voice had called inspiration would come to him, and he would be able to mount to heaven on it and bring down to earth some of the glorious things he saw. He thought inspiration must be some sort of a magical ladder, that was invisible to all but those given special sight to see and power to use it. If he ever caught a glimpse of it he intended to take hold at once and climb straight up to the blessed regions above; and dreaming of all he would see there, he fell asleep.
In the morning he was awake bright and early, and stretching himself with a long-drawn yawn, set out to find some way of procuring for himself a breakfast. First at one shop-door and then at another he stopped, popping in his shaggy head and asking the man inside, "Give me a job, Mister?" and being in reply promptly invited to "clear out!"
But it took more than this to discourage Larry, heartened as he was by the remembrance of his visions of the day before; and on and on he went, until, at last, in answer to his question—and just as he was about to withdraw his head from the door of the express-office into which he had popped it a moment before—he was bidden to say what it was he could do. Almost too surprised at the change in greeting to be able to reply, he stumbled back into the place and stood a moment in rather stupid silence before his questioner.
"Well, ain't yer got no tongue in yer head, young feller? Seemed ter have a minute ago. Ef yer can't speak up no better 'n this, yer ain't the boy fer us."
But by this time Larry had recovered himself sufficiently to blurt out: "I kin lift an' haul an' run errants an' do all sorts o' work about the place. Won't ye try me, Mister? Lemme carry out that box ter show ye how strong I am;" and suiting the action to the words, he shouldered a heavy packing-case and was out upon the sidewalk and depositing it upon a wagon, already piled with trunks and luggage, before the man had time to reply.
When he returned to the door-step he was greeted with the grateful intelligence that he might stay a bit and see how he got along as an errand-boy if he liked; and, of course, liking, he started in at once upon his new office.
That was the beginning. It gave him occupation and, food, but scarcely more than that at first. He had no time for dreaming now, but often when he had a brief moment to himself would take out of his pocket the piece of chalk with which he marked the trunks he carried, and sketch with it upon some rough box-lid or other the picture of a face or form which he saw in his fancy; so that after a time he was known among the men as "the artist feller," and grew to have quite a little reputation among them.
How the rest came about even Larry himself found it hard to tell. But by and by he was drawing with pencil and pen, and selling his sketches for what he could get, buying now a brush and then some paints with the scanty proceeds, and working upon his bits of canvas with all the ardor of a Raphael himself.
A man sat before an easel in a crowded studio one day, give the last touch to a painting that stood before him. It pictured the figure of a lad, ragged and forlorn, lying asleep beneath some sheltering trees. At first that seems all there was to be seen upon the canvas; but if one looked closer one was able to discover another figure amid the vaporous, soft glooms of the place. It grew ever more distinct, until one had no difficulty in distinguishing the form of a maiden, fair and frail as a dream. She was bending over the slumbering body of the boy, as if to arouse him to life by the whispered words she was breathing against his cheek.
The artist scrawled his signature in the corner of his completed work and set the canvas in its frame, and then stood before it, scrutinizing it closely.
"'The Waking Soul!'—I wonder if that is a good name for it?" murmured he to himself. And then, after a moment, he said to the pictured lad,—
"Well, Larry, little fellow, the dream's come true; and here we are, you and I,—you, Larry, and I, Lawrence,—with the 'wish grown strong to an endeavor, and the endeavor to an achievement.' Are you glad, Boy?"