Life — December 6, 1906 — page 27: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

QRS E LIFE iat: 671 OFFSPRING OF THE OLD BUNCH—SHIVERING AND HUGGING THEMSELVES You couldn’t tell for the life of you what you ate or what you said at supper. You sat in your old place beside mother and ate everything she passed you, you even drank the cam- bric tea she absent-mindedly prepared for you. In the midst of it all you suddenly remember. ‘Who is Bill?” you demand. “Bill? Oh, William, you mean. Why, don’t you remember little Willie Leary who lived down” “Of course I do! You don’t mean to say that was little Willie Leary. Who would have thought it?” After supper you sit on the porch and try to adjust yourself to the new order of things. You wonder if you ever really went skipping down that quiet ‘street, on just such another quiet evening like this, rending its stillness with the sammon- ing slogan of your clan. Away down Shady Street, the bell of the old Baptist church begins to ring, calling the faithful to Wednesday evening prayer-meeting. What a flood of memories that awakens! Its silvery tones come stealing through the gathering darkn to bathe your soul in the fountain of youth. Once more in thought you stroll down that shady street in the soft evening twilight. Once more you find the fellows waiting bashfully in the shadows by the chapel door. Once more you greet them and take your place to wait patiently for the outcoming of the Girl. Once more you espy Red Atkins lurking near the door and you get Fat Wilson to lead him in conversation about the team’s prospects and away from the door until you can settle the question of seeing her home. That boy Fat was the stuff. He could always be depended upon in a pinch. Once more she comes tripping down the steps with conscious downcast gaze, and you slip quietly to her side. Her blushing ‘“Good- evening” cuts short your mumbled request, and with one triumphant glance at the discomfited Red, you stroll up the street with her. What a girl! Her lips were the reddest, her yes the biggest, the bluest, and what a wealth of wavy brown hair she had! Unconsciously, you sigh. ‘What is it, dear?” calls you back to earth and you blush furiously in the darkness. at the rank treason of the dream, for Sue's eyes are black and her hair is neither wavy nor brown. \J The next morning, long before the folks are up, you are down-stairs. While you are waiting for breakfast, you inspect the barn and-garden and find that they, too, have not escaped the shrinking process of time. And breakfast! Say, none of your toast and egg breakfasts; no, sir, As you come slowly back from the barn, you can smell beefsteak frying and bis- cuits baking. Thearomaof boiling cofice meets you half wayand you imagine that you can hear crisp fried potatoes sizzling on the end of the stove. As you take a peep into the kitchen, a cloud of pungent smoke rolls out into your face and your mouth waters at the sight of a big stack of buckwheat cakes, piping hot, thick and fluffy. Right after breakfast you start down-town. You can’t wait a minute longer to take a look around the old place. Down by the Call office somebody leans out of a window and yells, “Hello, Stub!” Stub! It sends a little prickly sensation of youthfulness upand down your back. Stub! It’s the happiest, friendliest greeting you have heard in years. Your Adam’s apple sort of hardens and you turn to see Mick Connor, red- headed Mick Connor, waving at you from the editor’s office. You hustle across the street. ‘‘Mick, you freckle-faced old monkey, what are you doing in here?” you demand, then you remember that a man doesn’t a printer’s devil all his days. It’s the same old thing all the way down the street. The signs over the doors are the same. You could almost swear that they are the identical ones you used to look at as a boy, but the chaps behind the counters, at the desks, in the door- ways, they belong to the bunch that calls you Stub. You haven’t }een half way around when the noon whistle warns yout! “dtown folks are going to dinner—yes, dinner, not lunch. On way home you pass the old Academy. The boys come tumbling down the steps and skip up the street. The girls hurry along more sedately in giggling, whispering groups. You can’t resist the temptation to stop and take just one look at the old place. As you lean over the fence and read the moss-covered inscription: ‘‘Oldtown Academy, Founded 1845,” you feel once more the dread of that awful day when, shrinking, terror- stricken, clinging to your mother’s skirt, you were led up and into those yawning portals. Can you ever forget the feeling of overwhelming desolation with which you watched her departure and realized that you were taking your first step alone out into the big world? Can you ever forget the torture of that first recess under the merciless scrutiny of your future chums? But dinner is waiting. In front of the bank you meet the girl with the big blue eyes and the wavy brown hair. You bow cordially and receive in return a stare of mild curiosity. Ha! That’s a good one on Jane,” chuckles Red, coming out of the bank. “Didn't know you, ch? Well, you are get- ting fat, old man,” and he laughs irritatingly. ‘That's the sort of thing that appeals to Red. He went into the bank when. comicbooks.com