So we sit quietly, dreaming over the dying embers. We make no effort, we do not strive to "entertain." We simply speak of Men and Matters and how they influenced us and were woven unconsciously into the pattern of our inner lives.
So the long hour of twilight passes—passes. . . . . .
And each hour is no less precious because there will be so many hours "over the fireside" for both of us, now that we are growing old.
But we would not become young again, merely to grow old again.
No! NO!
Age, after all, has MEMORIES, and each Memory is as a story that is told.
Do you know those lovely lines by John Masefield—
"I take the bank and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornfield, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nor share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers."
And so I hope that a few of the embers in this little book will help to warm some unknown human heart.
And that is all I ask!