But at eventide there was light. After supper, after a little rest and a good deal of food, while chopping the kindling for morning (it's wonderful how useful employ tends to induce a cheerful view of life) out of her dazzling treasure-heap of jewels, Memory took up, one after another, a glowing recollection and viewed it with delight. The evening performance, the one all lighted up with bunches and bunches of lights, was a-preparing, and in the gentle breeze the far-off music waved as it had been a flag. A harsh and rumbling noise as of heavy timbers falling tore through the tissue of sweet sounds. The horses in the barn next door screamed in their stalls to hear it. Ages and ages ago, on distant wind-swept plains their ancestors had hearkened to that hunting-cry, and summoned up their valor and their speed. It still thrilled in the blood of these patient slaves of man, though countless generations of them had never even so much as seen a lion.
“And is that all the difference, pa, that the lion roars at night and the ostrich in the daytime?”
Out on the back porch in the deepening dusk we sat, with eyes relaxed and dreaming, and watched the stars that powdered the dark sky. Before our inward vision passed in review the day of splendor and renown. We sighed, at last, but it was the happy sigh of him who has full dined. Ambition was digesting. In our turn, when we grew up, we, too, were to do the deeds of high emprise. We were to be somebody.
(I never heard of anybody sitting up to see the show depart. And yet it seems to me that would be the best time to run off with it.)
The next day we visited the lots. It was no dream. See the litter that mussed up the place.
We were all there. None had heard the man that runs the show say genially: “Yes, I think we can arrange to take you with us.” Here was the ring; here the tent-pole holes, and here a scrap of paper torn from a hoop the bareback rider leaped through.... Oh, now I know what I was going to tell you that the clown said. The comicalest thing!
He picked up one of these hoops and began to sniffle.
So the ring-master asked him what he was crying about.
“I—I—was thinking of my mother. Smf! My good old mother!”
So the ring-master asked him what made him think of his mother.