Larry lay under the trees upon the soft, green grass, with his hat
tilted far forward over his eyes and his grimy hands clasped together
beneath his head, wishing with all his might first one thing and then
another, but always that it was not so warm.
When the children had gone to school in the morning, they had seen
Larry's figure, as they passed along the street, stretched out
full-length beneath the trees near the gutter curbstone; and when they
returned, there he was still. They looked at him with curiosity; and
some of the boys even paused beside him and bent over to see if he were
sunstruck. He let them talk about him and discuss him and wonder at
him as they would, never stirring, and scarcely daring to breathe, lest
they be induced to stay and question him. He wanted to be alone. He
wanted to lie lazily under the trees, and watch the sunbeams as they
flirted with the leaves, and hear the birds gossip with one another,
and feel the breeze as it touched his hot temples and soothed him with
its soft caresses.
Across the street, upon some one's fence-rail, climbed a honeysuckle
vine; and every now and then Larry caught a whiff of a faint perfume as
the breeze flitted by. He wished the breeze would carry heavier loads
of it and come oftener. It was tantalizing to get just one breath and
no more in this way.
But then, that was always the case with Larry; he seemed to get a hint
of so many things, and no more than that of any. Often when he was
lying as he was now, under green trees, beneath blue skies, he would
see the most beautiful pictures before his eyes. Sometimes they were
the clouds that drew them for him, and sometimes the trees. He would,
perhaps, be feeling particularly forlorn and tired, and would fling
himself down to rest, and then in a moment--just for all the world as
though the skies were sorry for him and wanted to help him forget his
troubles--he would see the white drifts overhead shift and change, and
there would be the vision of a magnificent man larger and more
beautiful than any mortal; and then Larry would hold his breath in
ecstasy, while the man's face grew graver and darker, and his strong
arm seemed to lift and beckon to something from afar, and then from out
a great stack of clouds would break one milk-white one which, when
Larry looked closer, would prove to be a colossal steed; and in an
instant, in the most remarkable way, the form of the man would be
mounted upon the back of the courser and then would be speeding off
toward the west. And then Larry would lose sight of them, just at the
very moment when he would have given worlds to see more; for by this
time the skies would have grown black, perhaps, and down would come the
rain in perfect torrents, sending Larry to his feet and scuttling off
into somebody's area-way for shelter. And there he would crouch and
think about his vision, fancying to himself his great warrior doing
battle with the sea; the sea lashing up its wave-horses till they rose
high upon their haunches, their gray backs curving outward, their foamy
manes a-quiver, their white forelegs madly pawing the air, till with a
wild whinny they would plunge headlong upon the beach, to be pierced by
the thousand rain-arrows the cloud-god sent swirling down from above,
and sink backward faint and trembling to be overtaken and trampled out
of sight by the next frenzied column behind.
Oh! it sent Larry's blood tingling through his veins to see it all so
plainly; and he did not feel the chill of his wet rags about him, nor
the clutch of hunger in his poor, empty stomach, when the Spirit of the
Storm rode out, before his very eyes, to wage his mighty war. And then
at other times it would all be quite different, and he would see the
figures of beautiful maidens in gossamer garments, and they would seem
to be at play, flinging flecks of sunlight this way and that, or
winding and unwinding their flaky veils to fling them saucily across
the face of the sun.
But none of these wondrous visions lasted. They remained long enough
to wake in Larry's heart a great longing for more, and then they would
disappear and he would be all the lonelier for the lack of them. That
was the greatest of his discouragements. What would he care for heat
or cold or hunger or thirst if he could only capture these fleeting
pictures once for all, so that he could always gaze at them and dream
over them and make them his forever!
That was one of the things for which Larry was wishing as he lay under
the trees that summer day. He was thinking: "If there was _only_ some
way of getting them down from there! It seems to me I 'd do anything
in the world to be able to get them down from there. I--."
"No, you would n't," said a low voice next his ear,--"no, you would
n't. You 'd lie here and wish and wonder all day long, but you would
n't take the first step to bring your pictures down from heaven."
For a moment Larry was so mightily surprised that he found himself
quite at a loss for words, for there was no one near to be seen who
could possibly have addressed him; but presently he gained voice to
say,--
"Oh, I know I could n't get 'em o' course. Folks can't reach up and
bring clouds down out o' de sky."
"I did n't say anything about clouds nor about the sky," returned the
voice. "I was speaking about pictures and heaven. Folks can reach up
and bring pictures down out of heaven. It's done every day. Geniuses
do it."
"Who is geniuses?" asked untaught Larry.
"People who can get near enough heaven to catch glimpses of its
wonderful beauty and paint it on canvas or carve it in marble for the
world to see, or who hear snatches of its music and set them upon paper
for the world to hear; and they are called artists and sculptors and
composers and poets."
"What takes 'em up to heaven?" queried Larry.
"Inspiration," answered the voice.
"I don't know o' that. I never seen it," the boy returned. "Is it
death?"
"No; it is life. But you would n't understand if I could explain it,
which I cannot. No one understands it. But it is there just the same.
You have it, but you do not know how to use it yet. You never will
unless you do something besides lie beneath the trees and dream. Why
can't you do something?"
"Oh, I'm tired with all the things I 'm not doin'!" said Larry, in his
petulant, whimsical way.
For a little the voice was silent, and Larry was beginning to fear it
had fled and deserted him like all the rest; when it spoke again, in
its low-toned murmur, like the breath of a breeze, and said,--
"It is cruel to make a good wish and then leave it to wander about the
world weak and struggling; always trying to be fulfilled and never
succeeding because it is not given strength enough. It makes a
nameless want in the world, and people's hearts ache for it and long to
be satisfied. They somehow feel there is somewhere a blessing that
might be blesseder, a beauty that should be more beautiful. It is then
that the little unfledged wish is near, and they feel its longing to be
made complete,--to be given wings and power to rise to heaven. Yes;
one ought not to make a good wish and let it go,--not to perish (for
nothing is lost in this world), but to be unfulfilled forever. One
ought to strengthen it day by day until it changes from a wish to an
endeavor, and then day by day from an endeavor to an achievement, and
then the world is better for it and glad of it, and its record goes
above. If all the people who wish to do wonderful things did them, how
blessed it would be! If all the people who wish to be good were good,
ah, then there would be no more disappointment nor tears nor heartache
in the world!"
Larry pondered an instant after the voice had ceased, and then said
slowly: "I _kind_ o' think I know what you mean. You think I 'd ought
to be workin'. But what could I do? There ain't nothin' I could be
doin'."
"Did n't I hear you complaining of me a little while ago, because I did
not carry heavy enough loads of honeysuckle scent and did not come
often enough? I carried all I was able to bear, for I am not very
strong nowadays, and I came as often as I could. In fact, I did my
best the first thing that came to hand. I want you to do the same.
That is duty. I don't bear malice toward you because you were
dissatisfied with me. You did not know. If you tried the best you
could and people complained, you ought not to let their discontent
discourage you. I brought you a whiff of perfume; you can bring some
one a sincere effort. By and by, when I am stronger and can blow good
gales and send the great ships safely into port and waft to land the
fragrant smell of their spicy cargo, you may be doing some greater work
and giving the world something it has been waiting for."
"The world don't wait for things," said Larry. "It goes right on; it
does n't care. I 'm hungry and ragged, and I have n't no place to
sleep; but the world ain't a-waitin' fer me ter get things ter eat, ner
clo'es to me back, ner a soft bed. It ain't a-waiting fer nothin', as
I can see."
"It does not stand still," replied the voice; "but it is waiting,
nevertheless. If you are expecting a dear, dear person--your mother,
for instance--"
"I ain't got no mother," interrupted Larry, with a sorrowful sigh; "she
died."
"Well, then--your sister," suggested the voice.
"I ain't got no sister. I ain't got nobody. I 'm all by meself,"
insisted the boy.
"Then suppose, for years and years you have been dreaming of a friend
who is to fill your world with beauty as no one else could do,--who
among all others in the world will be the only one who could show you
how fair life is. While you would not stand still and do nothing what
time you were watching for her coming, you would be always waiting for
her, and when she was there you would be glad. That is how the world
feels about its geniuses,--those whom it needs to make it more
wonderful and great. It is waiting for you. Don't disappoint it. It
would make you sad unto death if the friend of whom you had dreamed
should not come at last, would it not?"
Larry nodded his head in assent. "Does it always know 'em?" he asked.
"I mean does the world always be sure when the person comes, it 's the
one it dreamed of? Mebbe I'd be dreamin' of some one who was
beautiful, and mebbe the real one would n't look like what I thought,
and I 'd let her go by."
"Ah, little Lawrence, the world has failed so too. It has let its
beloved ones go by; and then, when it was too late, it has called after
them in pleading to return. They never come back, but the world keeps
repeating their names forever. That is its punishment and their fame."
"What does it need me for?" asked Larry.
"It needs you to paint for it the pictures you see amid the clouds and
on the earth."
"Can't they see 'em?" queried the boy.
"No, not as you can. Their sight is not clear enough. God wants them
to know of it, and so He sends them you to make it plain to them. It
is as though you went to a foreign country where the people's speech
was strange to you. You could not know their meaning unless some one
who understood their language and yours translated it for you. He
would be the only one who could make their meaning clear to you. He
would be an interpreter."
"How am I to get that thing you spoke about that 'd take me up to
heaven, so's I could bring down the beautiful things I see?" inquired
Larry. "Where is it?"
"Inspiration?" asked the voice. "That is everywhere,--all about you,
within and without you. You have only to pray to be given sight clear
enough to see it and power to use it. But now I must leave you. I
have given you my message; give the world yours. Good-by, Lawrence,
good-by;" and the voice had ceased.