Dixie vanished over the brow of the hill, and Tom dove into his tumble-down shack to prepare the breakfast of fish fresh from the river to which he had invited his doctor friend.
And the picture that my memory paints is no longer possible, for dear old Dixie has gone over the Divide, to dig for gold at the foot of eternal rainbows in the placers of the Great Beyond. And I am glad that I went in quest of childhood’s memories while it was yet time.
Out of the Valley of Shadows, Mnemosyne—most puissant goddess of them all—leads forth a procession of misty familiar shapes that bring the warmth of affection to my heart and the smile of welcome to my lips. And they smile back at me in that quiet way which friendly shadows have.
As the vague and unsubstantial forms flit silently past me from out the ivory portals where Memory’s golden scepter holds undisputed sway, I recognize a host of my boyhood’s friends; “Poker Jim”, “Boston”, “Toppy,” “Big” Brown, “Yankee”, “Jersey”, “Link” Spears, Tom Chandler, Dave Smuggins, Ike Dessler, Bill Loveless, and many more of the bronzed, deep-chested, red-shirted, hair-triggered Knights of the Golden Fleece smile back at me from the ghostly file.
Last, but not least, comes my boyhood’s hero, that Turpin of the border, “Three Fingered Jack” of Calaveras, who has been served up to us in so many and various forms of literary hash that I shall one day write his true history as a matter of pious duty.
G. Frank Lydston.