When You Were a Boy

by Edwin L. Sabin

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. “I can’t see you at all.”

“And I can’t see you, either,” you responded.

Silence.

“Where are you?” she whispered.

“Oh, I’m here by the door. Are you ’fraid?” you bantered innocently.

Silence.

“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 together, 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.