It is the dreams of life that, at the beginning of life, that
matter. Of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life, Dreams are
first.
It was green fruit time. From the cherry tree that grew in
the upper corner of the garden next door, close by the hedge
that separated the two places, the blossoms were gone and the
tiny cherries were already well formed. The nest, that a pair
of little brown birds had made that spring in the hedge, was
just empty, and, from the green laden branches of the tree, the
little brown mother was calling anxious advice and sweet worried
counsel to her sons and daughters who were trying their new wings.
In the cemetery on the hill, beside a grave over which the
sod had formed thick and firm, there was now another grave another
grave so new that on it no blade of grass had started—so
new that the yellow earth in the long rounded mound was still
moist and the flowers that tried with such loving, tender,courage,
to hide its nakedness were not yet wilted. Cut in the block of
white marble that marked the grass-grown grave were the dearest
words in any tongue Wife and ~other; while, for the new-made
mound that lay so close beside, the workmen were carving on a
companion stone the companion words.
There were two other smaller graves nearby—one of them
quite small—but they did not seem to matter so much to the
tall young fellow who had said to himself so many times: "when
I am twenty-one, I will be a man." It was the two graves
marked by the companion words that mattered. And certainly he
did not, at that time, feel himself a man. As he left the cemetery
to go home with an old neighbor and friend of the family, he
felt himself rather a very small and lonely boy in a very big
and empty world.
But there had been many things to do in those next few days,
with no one but himself to do them. There had been, in the voices
of his friends, a note that was new. In the manner of the men
who had come to talk with him on matters of business, he had
felt a something that he had never felt before. And he had seen
the auctioneer—a lifelong friend of his father—standing
on the front porch of his boyhood home and had heard him cry
the low spoken bids and answer the nodding heads of the buyers
in a voice that was hoarse with something more than long speaking
in the open air. And then—and then—at last had come
the sharp blow of the hammer on the porch railing and from the
trembling lips of the old auctioneer the word: "Sold."
It was as though that hammer had fallen on the naked heart
of the boy. It was as though the auctioneer had shouted: "Dead."
And so the time had come, a week later, when he must go for
a last look at the home that was his no longer. Very slowly he
had walked about the yard; pausing a putting forth his hand,
at times, to touch them softly as though he would make sure that
they were there for he saw them dimly through a mist. The place
was strangely hushed and still. The birds and bees and even the
butterflies seemed to have gone somewhere far away. Very slowly
he had gone up the steps to open the front door. Very slowly
he had passed from room to room in the empty, silent, house.
On the kitchen porch he had paused again, for a little, because
he could not see the steps; then had gone on to the well, the
garden, the wood house, the shop, the barn, and so out into the
orchard that shaded the gently rising slope of the hill beyond
the house. At the farther side of the orchard, on the brow of
the hill, he had climbed the rail fence and had seated himself
on the ground where he could look out and away over the familiar
meadows and fields and pastures.
A bobo-link, swinging on a nearby bush, poured forth a tumbling
torrent of silvery melody. Behind him, on the fence, a meadow
lark answered with liquid music. About him on every side, in
the soft sunlight, the bluebirds were hitting here and there,
twittering cheerily the while over their bluebird tasks. And
a woodpecker, hard at work in the orchard shade, made himself
known by the din o£ his industry.
But the man, who did not yet quite realize that he was a man,
gave no heed to these busy companions of his boyhood. To him,
it was as though those men with their shovels had heaped that
mound of naked, yellow, earth upon his heart. The world, for
him was as empty as the old house down there under the orchard
hill. For a long time he sat very still— seeing nothing,
hearing nothing, heeding nothing— conscious only of that
dull, aching, loneliness—conscious only of that heavy weight
of pain.
A mile or more away, beyond the fields, a moving column of
smoke from a locomotive lifted itself into the sky above the
tree tops and streamed back a long, dark, banner. As the column
of smoke moved steadily on toward the distant horizon, the young
man on the hilltop watched it listlessly. Then, as his mind outran
the train to the cities that lay beyond the line of the sky,
his eyes cleared, his countenance brightened, his thoughts went
outward toward the great world where great men toil mightily;
and the long, dark, banner of smoke that hung above the moving
train became to him as a flag of battle leading swiftly toward
the front. Eagerly now he watched—watched until, far away,
the streaming column of smoke passed from sight around a wooded
hill and faint and clear through the still air—a bugle call
to his ears—came the long challenging whistle.
Then it was that he realized his manhood—knew that he
was a man—and understood that manhood is not a matter of
only twenty-one years. And then it was—as he sat there alone
on the brow of the little hill with his boyhood years dead behind
him and the years of his manhood before that his manhood life
began, even as the manhood life of every man really begins, with
his Dreams.
Indeed it is true that all life really begins in dreams. Surely
the lover dreams of his mistress— the maiden of her mate.
Surely mothers dream of the little ones that sleep under their
hearts and fathers plan for their children before they hold them
in their arms. Every work of man is first conceived in the worker's
soul and wrought out first in his dreams. And the wondrous world
itself, with its myriad forms of life, with its grandeur, its
beauty and its loveliness; the stars and the heavenly bodies
of light that crown the universe; the marching of the days
from the Infinite to the Infinite; the procession of the years
from Eternity to Eternity; all this, indeed, is but God's good
dream. And the hope of immortality—of that better life that
lies beyond the horizon of our years—what a vision is that—what
a wondrous dream—given us by God to inspire, to guide, to
comfort, to hold us true !
With wide eyes the man looked out upon a wide world somewhat
as a conquering emperor, confident in his armed strength, might
from a hilltop look out over the scene of a coming battle. Ho
did not see the grinding hardships, the desperate struggles,
the disastrous losses, the pitiful suffering. The dreadful dangers
did not grip his heart. The horrid fear of defeat did not strike
his soul. He did not know the dragging weight of responsibility
nor the dead weariness of a losing fight. He saw only the deeds
of mighty valor, the glorious exhibitions of courage, of heroism,
of strength. He felt only the thrill of victories, the pride
of honors and renown. :E[e knew only the inspiration of a high
purpose. He heard only the call to greatness. And it was well
that in his Dreams there were only these.
The splendid strength of young manhood stirred mightily in
his limbs. The rich, red, blood of youth moved swiftly in his
veins. His eager spirit shouted aloud in exultation of the deeds
that he would do. And, surely, it was no shame to him that at
this moment, when for the first time he realized his manhood,
this man, in his secret heart, felt himself to be a leader of
men, a conqueror of men, a savior o£ men. It was no shame
to him that he felt the salvation of the world depending upon
him.
And he was right. Upon him and upon such as he the salvation
of the world does depend. But it is well, indeed, that these
unrecognized, dreaming, saviors of the world do not know, as
they dream, that their crosses, even then, are being prepared
for them. It is their salvation that they do not know. It is
the salvation of the world that they do not know.
And then, as one from the deck of a ship bound for a foreign
land looks back upon his native shore when the vessel puts out
from the harbor, this man turned from his years that were to
come to his years that were past and from dreaming of his future
slipped back into the dreams of his Yesterdays. Perhaps it was
the song of the bobo-link that did it; or it may have been the
music of the meadow lark; or perhaps it was the bluebird's cheerful
notes, or the woodpecker's loud tattoo—whatever it was that
brought it about, the man dreamed again the dreams the great
deeds he ever read about and can be all the things that ever
were put in books for boys to wish they were.
Oh, but those were brave dreams—those dreams of his Yesterdays!
No cruel necessity of life hedged them in. No wall of the practical
or possible set a limit upon them. No right or wrong decreed
the way they should go. In his Yesterdays, there were fairy Godmothers
to endow him with unlimited power and to grant all his wishes,
even unto mountains of golden wealth and vast caverns filled
with all manner of precious gems. In his Yesterdays, there were
wicked giants and horrid dragons and evil beasts to kill, with
always a good Genii to see that they did not harm him the while
he bravely took their baleful lives. In his Yesterdays, he was
a prince in gorgeous rainment; an emperor with jeweled scepter
and golden crown; a knight in armor, with a sword and proudly
stepping horse of war; he was a soldier leading a forlorn hope;
or a general, with his plumed staff officers about him, directing
the battle from a mountain top; he was a sailor cast away on
a desert island; or a captain commanding his ship in a storm
or, clinging to the shrouds in a smother of battle Flame and
smoke, shouting his orders through ~ trumpet to his gallant crew.......
