I heard a boy, a high-school boy, complain and fret, the town was small, and cramped his style, and hindered his stride; he must get out into the world where things happen, where Life abounds, Life and Things -- Ah me. When just around the corner towards the setting sun, a baby lay dead, a puny little weakling, made so through lack of bread; the father shiftless, dull of mind, and slow; the poor mother watched the child weaker, weaker grow; and in the big house on the hill, a wee bit of femininity has arrived, "out of the nowhere into here." Ah me -- If I could only make that boy, that bright-eyed high-school boy, to know and understand that Life was all about him, for some day he'll know there are no bigger things on this old earth than being trained to meet both Death and Birth. |