And where are the friends of my youth? I have found one of 'em,
certainly. I saw him ride in a circus the other day on a bareback horse,
and even now his name stares at me from yonder board-fence in green and
blue and red and yellow letters. Dashington, the youth with whom I used
to read the able orations of Cicero, and who as a declaimer on
exhibition days used to wipe the rest of us boys pretty handsomely
out--well, Dashington is identified with the halibut and cod interests
--drives a fish-cart, in fact, from a certain town on the coast back
into the interior. Hurburtson--the utterly stupid boy--the lunkhead who
never had his lesson, he's about the ablest lawyer a sister State can
boast. Mills is a newspaper man, and is just now editing a Major General
down South. Singlingson, the sweet-faced boy whose face was always
washed and who was never rude, _he_ is in the penitentiary for putting
his uncle's autograph to a financial document. Hawkins, the clergyman's
son, is an actor; and Williamson, the good little boy who divided his
bread and butter with the beggar-man, is a failing merchant, and makes
money by it. Tom Slink, who used to smoke Short Sixes and get acquainted
with the little circus boys, is popularly supposed to be the proprietor
of a cheap gaming establishment in Boston, where the beautiful but
uncertain prop is nightly tossed. Be sure the Army is represented by
many of the friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a good
account of themselves.
But Chalmerson hasn't done much. No, Chalmerson is rather of a failure.
He plays on the guitar and sings love-songs. Not that he is a bad man--a
kinder-hearted creature never lived, and they say he hasn't yet got over
crying for his little curly-haired sister who died ever so long ago. But
he knows nothing about business, politics, the world, and those things.
He is dull at trade--indeed, it is the common remark that "Everybody
cheats Chalmerson." He came to the party the other evening and brought
his guitar. They wouldn't have him for a tenor in the opera, certainly,
for he is shaky in his upper notes; but if his simple melodies didn't
gush straight from the heart! why, even my trained eyes were wet! And
although some of the girls giggled, and some of the men seemed to pity
him, I could not help fancying that poor Chalmerson was nearer heaven
than any of us all.
Copyrighted by G. W. Dillingham and Company.