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house； every room； every creaking chair has its own particular ghost。 They
haunt the empty chambers of our lives； they throng around us like dead
leaves whirled in the autumn wind。 Some are living； some are dead。 We
know not。 We clasped their hands once； loved them； quarreled with them；
laughed with them； told them our thoughts and hopes and aims； as they
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told us theirs； till it seemed our very hearts had joined in a grip that would
defy the puny power of Death。 They are gone now； lost to us forever。
Their eyes will never look into ours again and their voices we shall never
hear。 Only their ghosts come to us and talk with us。 We see them； dim and
shadowy； through our tears。 We stretch our yearning hands to them； but
they are air。
Ghosts！ They are with us night and day。 They walk beside us in the
busy street under the glare of the sun。 They sit by us in the twilight at
home。 We see their little faces looking from the windows of the old
school…house。 We meet them in the woods and lanes where we shouted
and played as boys。 Hark！ cannot you hear their low laughter from behind
the blackberry…bushes and their distant whoops along the grassy glades？
Down here； through the quiet fields and by the wood； where the evening
shadows are lurking； winds the path where we used to watch for her at
sunset。 Look； she is there now； in the dainty white frock we knew so well；
with the big bonnet dangling from her little hands and the sunny brown
hair all tangled。 Five thousand miles away！ Dead for all we know！ What of
that？ She is beside us now； and we can look into her laughing eyes and
hear her voice。 She will vanish at the stile by the wood and we shall be
alone； and the shadows will creep out across the fields and the night wind
will sweep past moaning。 Ghosts！ they are always with us and always will
be while the sad old world keeps echoing to the sob of long good…bys；
while the cruel ships sail away across the great seas； and the cold green
earth lies heavy on the hearts of those we loved。
But； oh； ghosts； the world would be sadder still without you。 Come to
us and speak to us； oh you ghosts of our old loves！ Ghosts of playmates；
and of sweethearts； and old friends； of all you laughing boys and girls； oh；
come to us and be with us； for the world is very lonely； and new friends
and faces are not like the old； and we cannot love them； nay； nor laugh
with them as we have loved and laughed with you。 And when we walked
together； oh； ghosts of our youth； the world was very gay and bright； but
now it has grown old and we are growing weary； and only you can bring
the brightness and the freshness back to us。
Memory is a rare ghost…raiser。 Like a haunted house； its walls are ever
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echoing to unseen feet。 Through the broken casements we watch the
flitting shadows of the dead； and the saddest shadows of them all are the
shadows of our own dead selves。
Oh； those young bright faces； so full of truth and honor； of pure； good
thoughts； of noble longings； how reproachfully they look upon us with
their deep； clear eyes！
I fear they have good cause for their sorrow； poor lads。 Lies and
cunning and disbelief have crept into our hearts since those preshaving
daysand we meant to be so great and good。
It is well we cannot see into the future。 There are few boys of fourteen
who would not feel ashamed of themselves at forty。
I like to sit and have a talk sometimes with that odd little chap that was
myself long ago。 I think he likes it too； for he comes so often of an
evening when I am alone with my pipe； listening to the whispering of the
flames。 I see his solemn little face looking at me through the scented
smoke as it floats upward； and I smile at him； and he smiles back at me；
but his is such a grave； old…fashioned smile。 We chat about old times； and
now and then he takes me by the hand； and then we slip through the black
bars of the grate and down the dusky glowing caves to the land that lies
behind the firelight。 There we find the days that used to be； and we wander
along them together。 He tells me as we walk all he thinks and feels。 I laugh
at him now and then； but the next moment I wish I had not； for he looks so
grave I am ashamed of being frivolous。 Besides； it is not showing proper
respect to one so much older than myselfto one who was myself so very
long before I became myself。
We don't talk much at first； but look at one another； I down at his curly
hair and little blue bow； he up sideways at me as he trots。 And some…how I
fancy the shy； round eyes do not altogether approve of me； and he heaves a
little sigh； as though he were disappointed。 But after awhile his
bashfulness wears off and he begins to chat。 He tells me his favorite fairy…
tales； he can do up to six times； and he has a guinea…pig； and pa says fairy…
tales ain't true； and isn't it a pity？ 'cos he would so like to be a knight and
fight a dragon and marry a beautiful princess。 But he takes a more
practical view of life when he reaches seven； and would prefer to grow up
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
be a bargee； and earn a lot of money。 Maybe this is the consequence of
falling in love； which he does about this time with the young lady at the
milk shop aet。 six。 （God bless her little ever…dancing feet； whatever size
they may be now！） He must be very fond of her； for he gives her one day
his chiefest treasure； to wit； a huge pocket…knife with four rusty blades and
a corkscrew； which latter has a knack of working itself out in some
mysterious manner and sticking into its owner's leg。 She is an affectionate
little thing； and she throws her arms round his neck and kisses him for it；
then and there； outside the shop。 But the stupid world （in the person of the
boy at the cigar emporium next door） jeers at such tokens of love。
Whereupon my young friend very properly prepares to punch the head of
the boy at the cigar emporium next door； but fails in the attempt； the boy
at the cigar emporium next door punching his instead。
And then comes school life； with its bitter little sorrows and its joyous
shoutings； its jolly larks； and its hot tears falling on beastly Latin
grammars and silly old copy…books。 It is at school that he injures himself
for lifeas I firmly believetrying to pronounce German； and it is there；
too； that he learns of the importance attached by the French nation to pens；
ink； and paper。 〃Have you pens； ink； and paper？〃 is the first question asked
by one Frenchman of another on their meeting。 The other fellow has not
any of them； as a rule； but says that the uncle of his brother has got them
all three。 The first fellow doesn't appear to care a hang about the uncle of
the other fellow's brother； what he wants to know now is； has the neighbor
of the other fellow's mother got 'em？ 〃The neighbor of my mother has no
pens； no ink； and no paper；〃 replies the other man； beginning to get wild。
〃Has the child of thy female gardener some pens； some ink； or some
paper？〃 He has him there。 After worrying enough about these wretched
inks； pens； and paper to make everybody miserable； it turns out that the
child of his own female gardener hasn't any。 Such a discovery would shut
up any one but a French exercise man。 It has no effect at all； though； on
this shameless creature。 He never thinks of apologizing； but says his aunt
has some mustard。
So in the acquisition of more or less useless knowledge； soon happily
to be forgotten； boyhood passes away。 The red…brick school…house fades
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
from view； and we turn down into the world's high…road。 My little friend is
no longer little now。 The short jacket has sprouted tails。 The battered cap；
so useful as a combination of pocket…handkerchief； drinking…cup；