When You Were a Boy

by Edwin L. Sabin

And the answer would be:

“None. He is only a poor little outcast, driven by abuse from home.”

That would be a grand way to die, if only the household would know about it. Your eyes grew wet, while your heart swelled triumphant, as the picture took hold upon your sympathies.

The aroma of fresh cookies floated through the kitchen’s open door. You were aware that Maggie would be expecting you. When warm cookies were heralded, she had good reason to expect you. You hesitated, and for some time you held off, with the vague purpose of spiting her or your mother. If only one or the other would try to coax you in! But one or the other didn’t. So, finally (the aroma proving beyond human endurance) you tramped moodily in, and from the fragrant pile abstracted a handful of the luscious disks.

Even as you did so you were proudly conscious that another cooky day, and the pile would await your coming, in vain. Very likely, after you were gone, they would not bake cookies any more. Or, if they did, the dough would be all salty with tears. Maybe, as an almost hopeless resort, mother would say:

“Maggie, bake cookies to-day just as you used to. Leave the door and windows open, and perhaps—who knows—our Johnny may be lingering about, and when he smells them baking he will understand that we are waiting and calling.”

“Yes, ma’am—who knows?” would reply Maggie, chokingly.

You also, choked. For even then you would be dead, dead, dead. You could die in a week, couldn’t you?

You gulped down the last mouthful of warm cooky, and suddenly as you raked you waxed brighter. Why die? Why not live on, and become famous? Would not that be far better revenge? Some day, then, would reach household ears word of a new star in the firmament of glory; a name would be read, a name would be spoken, a name resounding through the whole world, name of intrepid explorer, dashing leader, multi-millionaire, potentate over savage peoples, what-not. And father would say to mother:

“Why—that’s our Johnny!”