RETROSPECT
Mr. Patrick Henry was probably correct in saying that there is no way
of judging the future but by the past, and, to my thinking, he might
well have included the present along with the future. Today is
better or worse than yesterday or some other day in the past, just as
this cherry pie is better or worse than some past cherry pie. But
even this pie may seem a bit less glorious than the pies of the past,
because of my jaded appetite--a fact that is easily lost sight of.
Folks who extol the glories of the good old times may be forgetting
that they are not able to relive the emotions that put the zest into
those past events. We used to go to "big meeting" in a two-horse
sled, with the wagon-body half filled with hay and heaped high with
blankets and robes. The mercury might be low in the tube, but we
recked not of that. Our indifference to climatic conditions was not
due alone to the wealth of robes and blankets, but the proximity of
another member of the human family may have had something to do with
it. If we could reconstruct the emotional life of those good old
times, the physical conditions would take their rightful place as a
background.
If we could only bring back the appetite of former years we might
find this pie better than the pies of old. The good brother who
seems to think the textbooks of his boyhood days were better than the
modern ones forgets that along with the old-time textbooks went
skating, rabbit-hunting, snowballing, coasting, fishing, sock-up,
bull-pen, two-old-cat, townball, and shinny-on-the-ice. He is
probably confusing those majors with the text-book minor. His
criticism of things and books modern is probably a voicing of his
regret that he has lost his zeal for the fun and frolic of youth. If
he could but drink a few copious drafts from the Fountain of Youth,
the books of the present might not seem so inferior after all. The
bread and apple-butter stage of our hero's career may seem to dim the
lustre of the later porterhouse steak, but with all the glory of the
halcyon days of yore it is to be noted that he rides in an automobile
and not in an ox-cart, and prefers electricity to the good old
oil-lamp.
I concede with enthusiasm the joys of bygone days, and would be glad
to repeat those experiences with sundry very specific reservations
and exceptions. That thick bread with its generous anointing of
apple butter discounted all the nectar and ambrosia of the books and
left its marks upon the character as well as the features of the
recipient. The mouth waters even now as I recall the bill of fare
plus the appetite. But if I were going back to the good old days I'd
like to take some of the modern improvements along with me. It
thrills me to consider the modern school credits for home work with
all the "57 varieties" as an integral feature of the good old days.
Alas, how much we missed by not knowing about all this! What
miracles might have been wrought had we and our teachers only known!
Poor, ignorant teachers! Little did they dream that such wondrous
things could ever be. Life might have been made a glad, sweet song
for us had it been supplied with these modern attachments. I spent
many weary hours over partial payments in Ray's Third Part, when I
might have been brushing my teeth or combing my hair instead. Then,
instead of threading the mazes of Greene's Analysis and parsing
"Thanatopsis," I might just as well have been asleep in the haymow,
where ventilation was super-abundant. How proudly could I have
produced the home certificate as to my haymow experience and received
an exhilarating grade in grammar!
Just here I interrupt myself to let the imagination follow me
homeward on the days when grades were issued. The triumphal
processions of the Romans would have been mild by comparison. The
arch look upon my face, the martial mien, and the flashing eye all
betoken the real hero. Then the pride of that home, the sumptuous
feast of chicken and angel-food cake, and the parental acclaim--all
befitting the stanch upholder of the family honor. Of course,
nothing like this ever really happened, which goes to prove that I
was born years too early in the world's history. The more I think of
this the more acute is my sympathy with Maud Muller. That girl and I
could sigh a duet thinking what might have been. Why, I might have
had my college degree while still wearing short trousers. I was
something of an adept at milking cows and could soon have eliminated
the entire algebra by the method of substitution. Milking the cows
was one of my regular tasks, anyhow, and I could thus have combined
business with pleasure. And if by riding a horse to water I could
have gained immunity from the _Commentaries_ by one Julius Caesar,
full lustily would I have shouted, _a la_ Richard III: "A horse! A
horse! My kingdom for a horse!"
One man advocates the plan of promoting pupils in the schools on the
basis of character, and this plan strongly appeals to me as right,
plausible, and altogether feasible. Had this been proposed when I
was a schoolboy I probably should have made a few conditions, or at
least have asked a few questions. I should certainly have wanted to
know who was to be the judge in the matter, and what was his
definition of character. Much would have depended upon that. If he
had decreed that cruelty to animals indicates a lack of character and
then proceeded to denominate as cruelty to animals such innocent
diversions as shooting woodpeckers in a cherry-tree with a Flobert
rifle, or smoking chipmunks out from a hollow log, or tying a strip
of red flannel to a hen's tail to take her mind off the task of
trying to hatch a door-knob, or tying a tin can to a dog's tail to
encourage him in his laudable enterprise of demonstrating the
principle of uniformly accelerated motion--if he had included these
and other such like harmless antidotes for ennui in his category, I
should certainly have asked to be excused from his character
curriculum and should have pursued the even tenor of my ways,
splitting kindling, currying the horse, washing the buggy, carrying
water from the pump to the kitchen and saying, "Thank you," to my
elders as the more agreeable avenue of promotion.
If we had had character credits in the good old days I might have won
distinction in school and been saved much embarrassment in later
years. Instead of learning the latitude and longitude of Madagascar,
Chattahoochee, and Kamchatka, I might have received high grades in
geography by abstaining from the chewing of gum, by not wearing my
hands in my trousers-pockets, by walking instead of ambling or
slouching, by wiping the mud from my shoes before entering the house,
by a personally conducted tour through the realms of manicuring, and
by learning the position and use of the hat-rack. Getting no school
credits for such incidental minors in the great scheme of life, I
grew careless and indifferent and acquired a reputation that I do not
care to dwell upon. If those who had me in charge, or thought they
had, had only been wise and given me school credits for all these
things, what a model boy I might have been!
Why, I would have swallowed my pride, donned a kitchen apron, and
washed the supper dishes, and no normal boy enjoys that ceremony. By
making passes over the dishes I should have been exorcising the
spooks of cube root, and that would have been worth some personal
sacrifice. What a boon it would have been for the home folks too!
They could have indulged their penchant for literary exercises,
sitting in the parlor making out certificates for me to carry to my
teacher next day, and so all the rough places in the home would have
been made smooth. But the crowning achievement would have been my
graduation from college. I can see the picture. I am husking corn
in the lower field. To reach this field one must go the length of
the orchard and then walk across the meadow. It is a crisp autumn
day, about ten o'clock in the morning, and the sun is shining. The
golden ears are piling up under my magic skill, and there is peace.
As I take down another bundle from the shock I descry what seems to
be a sort of procession wending its way through the orchard. Then
the rail fence is surmounted, and the procession solemnly moves
across the meadow. In time the president and an assortment of
faculty members stand before me, bedight in caps and gowns. I note
that their gowns are liberally garnished with Spanish needles and
cockleburs, and their shoes give evidence of contact with elemental
mud. But then and there they confer upon me the degree of bachelor
of arts _magna cum laude_. But for this interruption I could have
finished husking that row before the dinner-horn blew.