The other day while searching through an old trunk for a lost paper, I
came across a little pasteboard box. Inside the box I found a photo of
a three-year-old boy with Fontleroy curls, and in the same box I found
those curls of beaten gold. I called to my wife, and together we examined
the relics of a bygone day. This was the picture of our baby boy, and I
recalled how, twelve years ago, we took him to the photographer and posed
him for his picture; and from there we took him to the barber’s and had
his curls cut off. He could not always remain our baby. We had postponed
the sad day for several months, and when we brought him back home and his
grandmother caught sight of the shorn boy, she took him in her arms and
cried: “Oh, where is my baby? You have traded him off for a boy!”
Strange how these things affect us. Strange how these babies grow out
of childhood and go exploring through boyhoodland. Our baby disappeared
the moment his last curl was severed, and a boy took his place in our
affection. Now that boy is passing from us. He is growing tall and stout,
and his voice is changing. The moment we put long trousers on him and
hide those sturdy legs he will be a young man. The boy will pass away as
did the baby in curls, leaving a peculiar sadness at our hearts. That
baby did not die, and yet he passed away from us as completely as though
we had placed him in a little grave. And some day soon the boyish face
will change to that of a man, and the boy will be gone forever.
I still recall the first evening we saw the boy sleeping on his bed,
after shorn of his curls, and his mother said to me: “No one can tell how
sadly I feel at this great change.” “I believe I do,” I replied; “and I
will try to put down on paper some of the emotions passing through your
heart. They are in mine too.”
And so I did try to write of her emotions, and the lines were still in
the old trunk, tied up with the photo and