[Illustration]
I would rather be a barefooted boy with cheeks of tan and heart of joy
than to be a millionaire and president of a National bank. The financial
panic that falls like a thunderbolt, wrecks the bank, crushes the
banker, and swamps thousands in an hour. But the bank which holds the
treasures of the barefooted boy never breaks. With his satchel and his
books he hies away to school in the morning, but his truant feet carry
him the other way, to the mill pond "a-fishin'." And there he sits the
livelong day under the shade of the tree, with sapling pole and pin
hook, and fishes, and fishes, and fishes, and waits for a nibble of the
drowsy sucker that sleeps on his oozy bed, oblivious of the baitless
hook from which he has long since stolen the worm. There he sits, and
fishes, and fishes, and fishes, and like Micawber, waits for something
to "turn-up." But nothing turns up until the shadows of evening fall and
warn the truant home, where he is welcomed with a dogwood sprout. Then
"sump'n" _does_ turn up. He obeys the call of the Sunday school bell,
and goes with solemn face, but e'er the "sweet bye and bye" has died
away on the summer air, he is in the wood shed playing Sullivan and
Corbett with some plucky comrade, with the inevitable casualties of
_one_ closed eye, _one_ crippled nose, _one_ pair of torn breeches and
_one_ bloody toe. He takes a back seat at church, and in the midst of
the sermon steals away and hides in the barn to smoke cigarettes and
read the story of "One-eyed Pete, the Hero of the _wild_ and _woolly_
West." There is eternal war between the barefooted boy and the whole
civilized world. He shoots the cook with a blow-gun; he cuts the strings
of the hammock and lets his dozing grandmother fall to the ground; he
loads his grandfather's pipe with powder; he instigates a fight between
the cat and dog during family prayers, and explodes with laughter when
pussy seeks refuge on the old man's back. He hides in the alley and
turns the hose on uncle Ephraim's standing collar as he passes on his
way to church, he cracks chestnut burrs with his naked heel; he robs
birds' nests, and murders bullfrogs, and plays "knucks" and "base-ball."
He puts asafetida in the soup, and conceals lizzards in his father's
hat. He overwhelms the family circle with his magnificent literary
attainments when he reads from the Bible in what he calls the "pasalms
of David"--"praise ye the Lord with the pizeltry and the harp."
[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF THE BAREFOOTED BOY.]
His father took him to town one day and said to him: "Now John, I want
you to stay here on the corner with the wagon and watch these potatoes
while I go round the square and see if I can sell them. Don't open your
mouth sir, while I am gone; I'm afraid people will think you're a fool."
While the old man was gone the merchant came out and said to John: "What
are those potatoes worth, my son?" John looked at him and grinned. "What
are those potatoes worth, I say?" asked the merchant. John still looked
at him and grinned. The merchant turned on his heel and said: "You're a
fool," and went back into his store. When the old man returned John
shouted: "Pap, they found it out and I never said a word."
His life is an endless chain of pranks and pleasures. Look how the
brawling brook pours down the steep declivities of the mountain gorge!
Here it breaks into pearls and silvery foam, there it dashes in rapids,
among brown bowlders, and yonder it tumbles from the gray crest of a
precipice. Thus, forever laughing, singing, rollicking, romping, till
it is checked in its mad rush and spreads into a still, smooth mirror,
reflecting the inverted images of rock, and fern, and flower, and tree,
and sky. It is the symbol of the life of a barefooted boy. His quips,
and cranks, his whims, and jollities, and jocund mischief, are but the
effervescences of exuberant young life, the wild music of the mountain
stream.
If I were a sculptor, I would chisel from the marble my ideal of the
monumental fool. I would make it the figure of a man, with knitted brow
and clinched teeth, beating and bruising his barefooted boy, in the
cruel endeavor to drive him from the paradise of his childish fun and
folly. If your boy _will_ be a boy, let him be a boy still. And remember
that he is following the paths which your feet have trodden, and will
soon look back upon its precious memories, as you now do, with the
aching heart of a care-worn man.
[Illustration: THE WILD MUSIC OF THE MOUNTAINS.]
(Sung to the air of Down on the Farm.)
Oh, I love the dear old farm, and my heart grows young and warm,
When I wander back to spend a single day;
There to hear the robins sing in the trees around the spring,
Where I used to watch the happy children play.
Oh, I hear their voices yet and I never shall forget
How their faces beamed with childish mirth and glee.
But my heart grows old again and I leave the spot in pain,
When I call them and no answer comes to me.