D. F.
CHAPTER I
LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND
Holding down a seat in the rocking chair fleet out on the shady piazza is most certainly not making the most out of life.
We all remember the line—“If wishes were fishes we’d have some fried.” That is the answer to those who rock and dream, and hope for something to turn up instead of turning up something on their own account.
Of course, there is a time for everything, even the stealthy, creeping rocking chair—and that’s about bedtime. In the estimation of an eminent neurologist there is no crime against nature in the home that cannot be traced to this monstrous thief of time, which, while apparently screeching and groaning under its load, is, in reality, shouting with joy at the job it is putting up on its occupant.
Taking the most out of life is the proper label for this old squeaker—breeder of idle contentment, day-dreams, inertia. Like everything else that saps the energy from mind and body, it counts its victims by the score, and throws them up on the sands of time.