"A year," said Beason dismally, "is such a long time to lose."
The man had nothing to say to that. His head sank a little. He seemed to be thinking.
Finally he came out of his reverie; seemed to come from a long way off. "And where are you going, my boy?" he asked kindly. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going clear out West," said Beason gloomily. "Father has something for me with a company in the Northwest."
"Out there!"—an eager voice rang out, a voice which rested on a smothered sob. "Great heavens, man, you're going out there? Out there to the mountains and the forests? Out there where you can see the sun come up and go down, can see—can see—" but his voice trailed off to a strange silence.
"I never cared much for scenery," said Beason bluntly, "and I care a lot for—all this I'm leaving."
"We don't really leave a thing," said the man—his voice was low and tired—"when we're coming back to it. The only real leave-takings are the final ones."
Beason shifted in his chair. Some of these things were not just what he had expected.
"Beason,"—something in his voice now made the boy move a little nearer—"I'm sorry for your disappointment, but I wish I could make you see how much you have to live for. Get in the habit of looking at the sunsets, Beason. Take a good many long looks at the mountains and the rivers. It's not unscientific. You know,"—with a little whimsical toss of his head—"we only have so many looks to take in this world, and when we're about through we'd hate to think they'd all been into microscopes and culture ovens. And don't worry too much, Beason, about things running into your plans and knocking them over. You know what that wise old Omar had to say about it all." He paused, and then quoted, very slowly, each word seeming to stand for many things:
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, shall know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.