Ah, once, in sooth, in days of youth, I longed to be a pirate; the corsair’s fame for deeds of shame—all boys did once desire it. At night when gleamed the stars I dreamed of sacking Spanish vessels, of clanging swords and dripping boards, and bloody scraps and wrestles. Then “One-Eyed Lief” the pirate chief my hero was and model; in dreams I’d hold his stolen gold till I could scarcely waddle. But father took his shepherd’s crook and lammed me like tarnation, till I forgot that sort of rot for milder aspiration.
And still I dreamed; and now I seemed to be a baseball pitcher, adored by all, both great and small, in wealth grown rich and richer. My dreaming eyes saw crowds arise and bless me from the bleachers, when I struck out some pinch hit lout and beat those Mudville creatures. I seemed to stand, sublime and grand, the idol of all fandom; men thought me swell, and treasured well the words I spoke at random. Ah, boyhood schemes, and empty dreams of glory, fame and riches! My mother came and tanned my frame with sundry birchen switches, and brought me back to duty’s track, and made me hoe the onions, dig garden sass and mow the grass until my hands had bunions.
In later days I used to raise my eyes to summits splendid. “I’ll hold,” I’d swear, “the White House chair, before my life is ended.” The years rolled on and dreams are gone, with all their gorgeous sallies, and in my town I’m holding down a job inspecting alleys.
Thus goes the world; a man is hurled from heights to depths abysmal; the dream of hope is golden dope, but waking up is dismal. So many dreams, so many schemes, upon the hard-rock shiver! We think we’ll eat some sirloin meat, and have to dine on liver. We think we’ll dine on duck and wine, with garlands hanging o’er us, but when some dub calls us to grub, stewed prunes are set before us. And yet, my friends, though dreaming ends in dark-blue taste tomorrow, build airy schemes! Without your dreams, this life would be all sorrow.
CHRISTMAS MUSINGS
One winter night—how long ago it seems!—I lay me down to bask in pleasant dreams. My sock was hung, hard by the quilting frame, where Santa Claus must see it when he came. I’d been assured by elders, good and wise, that he would come when I had closed my eyes; along the roofs he’d drive his team and sleigh, and down the chimney make his sooty way. And much I wondered, as I drowsy grew, how he would pass the elbows in the flue.
The morning came, the Christmas bells rang loud, I heard the singing of a joyous crowd, and in my sock that blessed day I found a gift that made my head whirl round and round. A pair of skates, whose runners shone like glass, whose upper parts were rich with steel and brass! A pair of skates that would the gods suffice, if ever gods go scooting o’er the ice! All through the day I held them in my arms and nursed them close, nor wearied of their charms. I did not envy then the king his crown, the knight his charger, or the mayor his town. I scaled the heights of rapture and delight—I had new skates, oh, rare and wondrous sight!
’Twas long ago, and they who loved me then are in their graves, the wise old dames and men. Since that far day when rang the morning chimes, the Christmas bells have rung full forty times; the winter snow is on my heart and hair, and old beliefs have vanished in thin air. No more I wait to hear old Santa’s team, as drowsily I drift into a dream. Age has no myths, no legends, no beliefs, but only facts, and facts are mostly griefs.
I’ve prospered well, I’ve earned a goodly store, since that bright morning in the time of yore. My home is filled with rare and costly things, and every day some modern comfort brings; I’ve motor cars and also speedy steeds, and goods to meet all human wants or needs; and at the bank, when I step in the door, the money changers bow down to the floor.