"Now isn't it queer--that fellow is a regular philosopher and works out
some great problems, but he's ashamed to express 'em. He could no more
give you his best than he could fly. Ashamed, I s'pose, ashamed of the
best that is in him. We are all a little that way--all but me--I try to
write my best, regardless of whether the thing sounds ridiculous or
not--regardless of what others think or say or have said. Ashamed of our
holiest, truest and best! Is it not too bad?
"You are twenty-five now? Well, boy, you may grow until you are thirty
and then you will be as wise as you ever will be. Haven't you noticed
that men of sixty have no clearer vision than men of forty? One reason
is that we have been taught that we know all about life and death and the
mysteries of the grave. But the main reason is that we are ashamed to
shove out and be ourselves. Jesus expressed His own individuality perhaps
more than any other man we know of, and so He wields a wider influence
than any other. And this though we only have a record of just
twenty-seven days of His life. Now that fellow that just left is an
engineer, and he dreams some beautiful dreams; but he never expresses
them to any one--only hints them to me, and this only at twilight. He is
like a weasel or a mink or a whippoorwill--he comes out only at night.
"'If the weather was like this all the time, people would never learn to
read and write,' said Joe to me just as you arrived. And isn't that so?
Here we can count a hundred people up and down this street, and not one
is reading, not one but that is just lolling about, except the
children--and they are happy only when playing in the dirt. Why, if this
tropical weather should continue we would all slip back into South Sea
Islanders! You can raise good men only in a little strip around the North
Temperate Zone--when you get out of the track of a glacier, a
tender-hearted, sympathetic man of brains is an accident."
Then the old man suddenly ceased and I imagined that he was following the
thought out in his own mind. We sat silent for a space. The twilight
fell, and a lamplighter lit the street lamp on the corner. He stopped an
instant to salute the poet cheerily as he passed. The man sitting on the
doorstep, across the street, smoking, knocked the ashes out of his pipe
on his boot-heel and went indoors. Women called their children, who did
not respond, but still played on. Then the creepers were carried in, to
be fed their bread-and-milk and put to bed; and, shortly, shrill feminine
voices ordered the other children indoors, and some obeyed.
The night crept slowly on.
I heard Old Walt chuckle behind me, talking incoherently to himself, and
then he said, "You are wondering why I live in such a place as this?"
"Yes; that is exactly what I was thinking of!"
"You think I belong in the country, in some quiet, shady place. But all I
have to do is to shut my eyes and go there. No man loves the woods more
than I--I was born within sound of the sea--down on Long Island, and I
know all the songs that the seashell sings. But this babble and babel of
voices pleases me better, especially since my legs went on a strike, for
although I can't walk, you see I can still mix with the throng, so I
suffer no loss.
"In the woods, a man must be all hands and feet. I like the folks, the
plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and
slide on my cellar-door do not disturb me a bit. I'm different from
Carlyle--you know he had a noise-proof room where he locked himself in.
Now, when a huckster goes by, crying his wares, I open the blinds, and
often wrangle with the fellow over the price of things. But the rogues
have got into a way lately of leaving truck for me and refusing pay.
Today an Irishman passed in three quarts of berries and walked off
pretending to be mad because I offered to pay. When he was gone, I
beckoned to the babies over the way--they came over and we had a feast.
"Yes, I like the folks around here; I like the women, and I like the men,
and I like the babies, and I like the youngsters that play in the alley
and make mud pies on my steps. I expect to stay here until I die."
"You speak of death as a matter of course--you are not afraid to die?"
"Oh, no, my boy; death is as natural as life, and a deal kinder. But it
is all good--I accept it all and give thanks--you have not forgotten my
chant to death?"
"Not I!"