Their Yesterdays Page 4

  KNOWLEDGE

  The green of the pastures and the gold of the fields was buried sodeeply under banks of snow that no one could say: "Here the cattle fedand the buttercups grew; there the grain was harvested; here the cornstood in shocks; there the daisies and meadow grass sheltered the nestof the bobo-link." As death calls alike the least and the greatestback to the dust from which they came, so winter laid over the variedand changing scenes of summer a cold, white, shroud of wearisomesameness. The birds were hundreds of miles away in their sunnysouthland haunts. The bees, the butterflies, and many of the tiny woodfolk, were all snugly tucked in their winter beds, dreaming, perhaps,as they slept, of the sunshiny summer days. In the garden the wind hadheaped a great drift high against the hedge on the boy's side, and, onthe little girl's side, the cherry tree in the corner stood shiveringin its nakedness with bare arms uplifted as though praying for mercyto the stinging cold wind.

  In the city the snow, as fast as it fell, was stained by soot andgrime and lay in the streets a mass of filth. The breath of thelaboring truck horses arose from their wide nostrils like clouds ofsteam and, in the icy air, covered their breasts and shoulders andsides with a coat of white frost. The newsboys and vendors of pencilsand shoestrings shivered in nooks and corners and doorways and, as thepeople went with heads bent low before the freezing blast that swirledthrough the narrow canyons between the tall buildings, the snowypavement squeaked loudly under their feet.

  And the man who had found something to do, from his Occupation, beganto acquire Knowledge. In doing things, he began to know things.

  But the man had to gain first a knowledge of Knowledge. He first hadto learn this: that a man might know all about a thing without everknowing the thing itself. He had to understand that Knowledge is notknowing _about_ a thing but knowing the _thing_. When firsthe had dreamed his manhood dreams, before he had found something todo, the man, quite modestly, thought that he knew a great deal. In hisschool days, he had exhausted many text books and had passed manycreditable examinations upon many subjects and so he had thought thathe knew a great deal. And he did. He knew a great deal _about_things. But when he had found something to do, and had tried to do it,he found also very quickly that, although he knew so much about thething he had to do, he knew very, very, little of the thing itself andthat only knowledge of the thing itself could ever help him to realizehis dreams.

  From his Occupation, he learned this also: that Knowledge is not whatsome other man knows and tells you but what the thing that you havefound to do makes known to you. Knowledge is not told, _cannot_be told, to one by another, even though that other has it abundantlyfor, to the one to whom it is told, it remains ever what someone elseknows. What the thing that a man finds to do makes known to him,_that_ is Knowledge. So Knowledge is to be had not from booksalone but rather from Life. So idleness is a vicious ignorance andthose who do the most are wisest.

  Before he had found something to do the man had called himself athinker. But when he tried to do the thing that he had found to do, hequickly realized that he had only thought that he thought. He foundthat he was not at all a thinker but a listener--a receiver--arememberer. In his school days, the thoughts of others were offeredhim and he, because he had accepted them, called them his own. Hecame, now, to understand that thinking is not accepting the thoughtsof others but finding thoughts of your own in whatever it is that youhave found to do.

  Thinking the thoughts of others is a delightful pastime and profitablebut it is not really thinking. Also, if one be blessed with a goodmemory, he may thus cheaply acquire a reputation for great wisdom;just as one, if he happens to be born with a nose of uncommon lengthor bigness, may attract the attention of the world. But no one shoulddeceive himself. A man because he is able, better than the multitude,to repeat the thoughts of other men must not therefore think himself abetter thinker than the crowd. No more should the one with theuncommon nose flatter himself that he is necessarily handsome ordistinguished in appearance because the people notice him. He whoattracts the attention of the world should inquire most carefully intothe reason for the gathering of the crowd; for a crowd will gather asreadily to listen to a mountebank as to hear an angel from heaven.

  To repeat what others have thought is not at all evidence that he whoremembers is thinking. Great thoughts are often repeatedthoughtlessly. A man's Occupation betrays him or establishes his claimto Knowledge. That which a man does proclaims that which he thinks orin his thoughtlessness finds him out.

  Of course, when the man had learned this, he said at first, quitewrongly, that his school days were wasted. He said that what he hadcalled his education was all a mistake--that it was vanity only andwholly worthless. But, as he went on gaining ever more and moreKnowledge from the thing that he was doing, and, through that thing,of many other things, he came to understand that his school days werenot wasted but very well spent indeed. He came to see that what he hadcalled education was not a mistake. He came to understand that whatwas wrong was this: he had considered his education complete,finished, when he had only been prepared to begin. He had consideredhis schooling as an end to be gained when it was only a means to theend. He had considered his learning as wealth to hold when it wascapital to invest. He had mistaken the thoughts that he received fromothers for Knowledge when they were given him only to inspire and tohelp him in acquiring Knowledge.

  And then, of this knowledge of Knowledge gained by the man from hisOccupation, there was born in him a mighty passion, a burning desire.It was the passion for Knowledge. It was the desire to know. To knowthe thing that he had found to do was not enough. He determined to usethat knowledge to gain Knowledge of many other things. He felt withinhimself a new strength stirring--the strength of thought. He saw thatknowledge of things led ever to more knowledge, even as link to linkin a golden chain. One end of the chain he held in his Occupation; theother was somewhere, far beyond his sight, hidden in the mists thatshroud the Infinite Fact, fast to the mighty secret of Life itself.Link by link, he determined to follow the chain. From knowing thingsto knowledge of other things he would go even until he held in hisgrip the last link--until he held the key to the riddle--until he knewthe answer to the sum of Life.

  And facts--cold, uncompromising, all powerful, unanswerablefacts--should give him this mastering knowledge of Life. For him thereshould be no sentiment to deceive, no illusion to beguile, no fancy tolead astray. As resistlessly as the winter, with snowflake uponsnowflake, had buried all the delightful vagaries of summer, so thisman, in his passion for Knowledge, would have buried all the charminginconsistencies, the beautiful inaccuracies, the lovely pretenses ofLife. The illusions, the sentiment, the fancies, the poetry of Life,he would have buried under the icy sameness of his facts, even as theflowers and grasses were hidden under winter's shroud of snow. But hecould not. Under the snow, summer still lived. Under the cold facts ofLife, the tender sentiments, the fond fancies, the dear illusions havestrength even as the flowers and grasses.

  I do not know what it was that brought it about. It does not matterwhat it was. Perhaps it was the sight of some boys coasting down alittle hill, on a side street, near where the man lived at this time:perhaps it was a group of children who, on their way home from school,were waging a merry snow fight: or, perhaps, it was the man's owneffort to acquire Knowledge: or, it may be, that his brain was weary,that the way of Knowledge seemed over long, that the links in thegolden chain were many and passed all too slowly through his hand--Ido not know--but, whatever it was that did it, the man, as he satbefore his fire that winter evening with a too solid and substantialbook, slipped away from his grown up world of facts back into the noless real world of childhood, back into his Yesterdays--to a schoolday in his Yesterdays.

  Once again he made his way in the morning to the little schoolhousethat stood half way up a long hill, in the edge of a bit of timber,nearly two miles from his home. The yard, beaten smooth and hard bymany bare and childish feet, was separated from the timber by a railfence but was left op
en in front to any stray horses or cattle that,wandering down the road, might be tempted to rest a while in the shadeof a great tree that stood near the center of the little clearing. Thestumps of the other forest beauties that had once, like this tree,tossed their branches in the sunlight were still holding the placesthat God had given them and made fine seats for the girls or bases forthe boys when they played ball at recess or noon. And often, when theshouting youngsters had been called from their sports by the rappingof the teacher's ruler at the door and only the busy hum of theirchildish voices came floating through the open windows, a venturesomesquirrel or a saucy chipmunk would creep stealthily along the fence,stopping now and then to sit bolt upright with tail in air to look andlisten. Then suddenly, at sight of a laughing face at the window orthe appearance of some boy who had gained the coveted permission toget a bucket of water, the little visitor would whisk away again likea flash and, with a warning chatter to his mate, would seek safetyamong the leaves and branches of the forest only to reappear once morewhen all was quiet until, at last, made bold by many trials, he wouldleap from the fence and scamper across the yard to take possession ofthe tallest stump as though he himself were a schoolboy. Sometimes acrow, after carefully watching the place for a little while from asafe position on the fence across the road, would fly quietly down tolook for choice bits dropped from the dinner baskets of the children.Or again, a long, lazy, black snake would crawl across the yard tosearch for the little mice that lived in the foundation of the houseand in the corners of the fence. Or, perhaps, a chicken hawk, that hadbeen sailing on outstretched wings in ever narrowing circles, woulddrop from the blue sky to claim his share of the plunder only to befrightened away again by the sound of the teacher's voice raised insharp rebuke of some mischievous urchin.

  The schoolhouse was not a large building nor was it, in the least,imposing. It was built of wood with a foundation of rough stone andthere were heavy shutters which were always carefully closed at nightto keep out the tramps who might seek a lodging place within. Andthere was a woodshed, too, where the boys romped upon rainy days andwhere was fought many a schoolboy battle for youthful love and honor.The building had once been painted white but the storm and sunshine ofmany months had worn away the paint, and there remained only the dark,weather stained, boards save beneath the cornice and the window ledgewhere one might still find traces of its former glory. The chimney,too, was old and some of the bricks had crumbled and fallen from thetop which made it look ragged against the sky. And the steps andthreshold were worn very thin--very, very, thin.

  Wearied with his passion for Knowledge; tired of his cold facts;hungering in his heart for a bit of wholesome sentiment as one inwinter hungers for the summer flowers; the man who sat before his firethat night, with a too heavy and substantial book, crossed once morewith childish feet the worn threshold of the old schoolhouse and stoodwithin the entry where hung the hats and dinner baskets of his mates.They looked very familiar to him--those hats--and, as he saw them inhis memory, each offered mute testimony to its owner's disposition andrank in childhood's world. There were broad brimmed straws thatbelonged to the patient, plodding, boys and caps that seemed made toset far back on the heads of the boisterous lads. There was the oldslouch felt of the poor boy who did chores for his board and thebrimless hat of the bully of the school. There were the trim sailorsof the good little boys and the head gear of his own particular chum.And there--the man who sought Knowledge only in facts smiled at thefire and a fond light came into his eyes while his too solid andsubstantial hook slipped unheeded to the floor--there was a sunbonnetof blue checkered gingham hanging by its long strings from a hook nearthe window.

  With fast beating heart, the boy saw that the next hook was vacant andplacing his own well worn straw beside the bonnet he wondered if shewould know whose hat it was. And then once more, with reluctant hand,the seeker of Knowledge, in his Yesterdays, pushed open the doorleading to the one room in the building and, with a sigh of regret,passed from the bright sunlight of boyish freedom to the shadow of hischildish task.

  There were neither tinted walls nor polished woodwork in that hall oflearning. But, thank God, learning does not depend upon tinted wallsor polished woodwork. Indeed it seems that rude rafters andunplastered ceilings most often covers the head of learning. Thehumble cottage of the farmer shelters many a true scholar andstatesmen are bred in log cabins. Neither was there a furnace withmysterious cranks and chains nor steam pipes nor radiators. But, whenthe cold weather came, the room was warmed by an old sheet iron stovethat stood near the center of the building with an armful of wood in abox nearby and the kindlings for to-morrow's fire drying on the floorbeneath. The desks were of soft pine, without paint or varnish, butcarved with many a quaint and curious figure by jack knives in thehands of ambitious youngsters. The seats were rude benches worn smoothand shiny. A water bucket had its place near the door and a rusty tindipper that leaked quite badly hung from a nail in the casing.

  And hanging upon the dingy wall were the old maps and charts that,torn and soiled by long usage, had patiently guided generations ofboys and girls through the mysteries of lands and seas, icebergs,trade winds, deserts, and plains. Still patiently they marked for theboy's bewildered brain latitude and longitude, the tropic of cancer,the arctic circle, and the poles. Were they hanging there still? theman wondered. Were they still patiently leading the way through awilderness of islands and peninsulas, capes and continents, rivers,lakes, and sounds? Or had they, in the years that had gone since helooked upon their learned faces, been sunk to oblivion in the depthsof their own oceans by the weight of their own mountain ranges? And,suddenly, the man who sought Knowledge in facts found himself wishingin his heart that some gracious being would make for older childrenmaps and charts that they might know where flow the rivers ofprosperity, where rise the mountains of fame, where ripple the lakesof love, where sleep the valleys of rest, or where thunders the oceanof truth.

  At one end of the old schoolroom, behind the teacher's desk, was ablackboard with its accompanying chalk, erasers, rulers, and bits ofstring. To the boy, that blackboard was a trial, a temptation, avindication, or a betrayal. Often, as he sat with his class on thelong recitation seat that faced the teacher's desk, with half studiedlesson, but with bright hopes of passing the twenty minutes safely,before the slow hand of the old clock had marked but half the time,his hopes would be blasted by a call to the board where he would bringupon himself the ridicule of his schoolmates, the condemnation of theteacher, and would take his seat to hear, with burning cheeks, theawful sentence: "You may study your lesson after school."

  After school--sorrowfully the boy saw the others passing from theroom, leaving him behind. And the last to go, glancing back with teardimmed eyes, was the little girl. Sadly he listened to the voices inthe entry and heard their shouts as they burst out doors;and--suddenly, his heart beat quicker and his cheeks burned--_that_was her voice!

  Clear and sweet through the open window of the man's memory itcame--the voice of his little girl mate of the Yesterdays.

  She was standing on the worn threshold of the old schoolhouse, callingto her friends to wait; and the boy knew that she was lingering therefor him and that she called to her companions loudly so that he wouldunderstand.

  But the teacher knew it too and bade the little girl go home.

  Then, while the boy listened to that sweet voice growing fainter andfainter in the distance; while he saw her, in his fancy, walkingslowly, lagging behind her companions, looking back for him; theteacher talked to him very seriously about the value of hisopportunities; told him that to acquire an education was his duty;sought to impress upon him that the most important thing in life wasKnowledge.

  Of course, thought the boy, teacher must know. And, thinking this, hefelt himself to be a very bad boy, indeed; because, in his heart, heknew that he would have, that moment, given up every chance of aneducation; he would have sacrificed every hope of wisdom; he wouldhave thrown away all Knowledge and heaven itsel
f just to be walkingdown the road with the little girl. And he must have been a littlehad--that boy--because also, most ardently, did he wish that he wasbig enough to thrash the teacher or whoever it was that inventedblackboards.

  As the man stooped to take up again his too solid and substantialbook, he felt that he was but a schoolboy still. To him, the world hadbecome but a great blackboard. In his private life or in conversationwith a friend, he might hide his poorly prepared lesson behind a showof fine talk, a pet quotation, or an air of learning; but when he wasforced to put what he knew where all men might see--when he was madeto write his sentences in books or papers or compelled to do hisproblems in the business world--then it was that his lack ofpreparation was discovered, and that he brought upon himself theridicule or condemnation of his fellows. Unconsciously he listened,half expecting to hear again the old familiar sentence: "You may studyyour lesson after school." After school--would there be any afterschool, he wondered.

  "And, after all, was that teacher in his Yesterdays right?" the manasked himself. "Was Knowledge the most important thing in life? Afterall, was that schoolboy of the Yesterdays such a bad schoolboybecause, in his boyish heart, he rebelled against the tasks that kepthim from his schoolmates and from the companionship of the littlegirl? Was that boy so bad because he wished that he was big enough tothrash whoever it was that invented blackboards, to rob schoolboys oftheir schoolgirl mates?"

  Suppose--the man asked himself, as he laid aside the too heavy andsubstantial book and looked into the fire again--suppose, that, aftera lifetime devoted to the pursuit of Knowledge, there should be noone, when school time was over, to linger on the worn old thresholdfor him? Suppose he should be forced, in the late afternoon, to godown the homeward road alone? Could it be truly said that his manhoodyears had been well spent? Could any number of accumulated factssatisfy him if the hour was a lonely hour when school closed for theday? Might it not be that there is a Knowledge to be gained from Lifethat is of more value than the wintry Knowledge of facts?

  As the man looked back into his Yesterdays, the blackboard and itscondemnation mattered little to him. It was the going home alone thatmattered. What, he wondered, would matter most when, at last, he couldlook back upon his grown up school days--the world blackboard with itsapproval or its condemnation, or the going home alone?

  * * * * *

  It was the time of melting snow. The top of the orchard hill was afaded brown patch as though, on a shoulder of winter's coat, theseason had worn a hole quite through; while the fields of the fallplowing made spots that looked pitifully thin and threadbare; and thecreek, below the house where the little girl lived, was a long darkline looking for all the world like a rip where the icy stitching of aseam in the once proud garment had, at last, given way. But the driftin the garden on the boy's side of the hedge was still piled highagainst the barrier of thickly interwoven branches and twigs and thecherry tree, in its shivering nakedness, seemed to be pleading, now,for spring to come quickly.

  The woman who knew herself to be a woman did not attempt to walk homefrom her work that Saturday afternoon. The streets were too muddy andshe was later than usual because of some extra work.

  Of her Occupation--of the world into which she had gone--the womanalso was gaining Knowledge. Though, she did not learn from choice butbecause she must. And she learned of her work only what was needfulfor her to know that she might hold her place. She had no desire toknow more. Because the woman already knew the supreme thing, she hadno desire to learn more of her Occupation than she must. Already sheknew her womanhood, and that, to a woman who knows, is the supremething. For a woman with understanding there is no Knowledge greaterthan this: the knowledge of her womanhood. There was born in her nopassion for knowledge of things. She burned with no desire to followthe golden chain, link by link, to its hidden end. In her womanhoodshe held already the answer to the sum of Life.

  The passion of her womanhood was not to _know_ but to _trust_--not_facts_ but _faith_--not _evidence_ but _belief_--not _reason_ but_emotion_. Her desire was not to take from the world by the powerof Knowledge but to receive from the world by right of her sex and love.She did not crave the independence of great learning but longed, rather,for the prouder dependence of a true womanhood. Out of her woman heart'sfullness she pitied and fed the poor mendicant without inquiring intothe economic condition that made him a beggar. Her situation, sheaccepted with secret rebellion, with hidden shame and humiliationin her heart, but never asked why the age forced her into such aposition. For affection, for sympathy, for confidence, and understanding,she hungered with a woman hunger; and, through her hunger for these,from the men and women with whom she labored she gained Knowledge ofLife. Of the lives of her fellow workers--of the women who had enteredthat world, even as she had entered it, because they must--of the menwhom she came to know under circumstances that forbade recognition ofher womanhood--she gained Knowledge; and the Knowledge she gained wasthis: that the world is a world of hungry hearts.

  I do not know just what the circumstances were under which the womanlearned this. I do not know what her Occupation was nor who herfriends were; nor can I tell in detail of the peculiar incidents thatled to this Knowledge. Such things are not of my story. This, only,belongs to my story: the woman learned that the world is a world ofhungry hearts. Cold and cruel and calculating and bold, fightingdesperately, merciless, and menacing, the world is but a hungryhearted world with it all. This, when a woman knows it, is, for her, asaving Knowledge. Just to the degree that a woman knows this, she iswise above all men--wise with a wisdom that men cannot attain. Just tothe degree that a woman is ignorant of this, she is unlearned in theworld's best wisdom.

  Long before she knocked at the door of the world into which she hadbeen admitted, upon condition that she left her womanhood without, thewoman had thought herself wise in knowledge of mankind. In her schooldays, text books and lessons had meant little to her beside thefriendship of her schoolmates. At her graduation she had consideredher life education complete. She thought, modestly, that she wasfitted for a woman's place in life. And that which she learned firstfrom the world into which she had gone was this: that her knowledge oflife was very, very, meager; that there were many, many, things aboutmen and women that she did not know.

  School could fit her only for the fancy work of Life: plain sewing shemust learn of Life itself. School had made her highly ornamental: Lifemust make her useful. School had developed her capacity for pleasureand enjoyment: not until Life had developed her capacity for sorrowand pain would her education be complete. School had taught her tospeak, to dress, and to act correctly: Life must teach her to feel.School had trained her mind to appreciate: Life must teach her tosympathize. School had made her a lady: Life must make the lady awoman.

  The woman had known her life schoolmates only in pleasure--in thosehours when they came to her seeking to please or desiring to bepleased. In her Occupation she was coming to know them in their hoursof toil, when there was no thought of gaining or giving pleasure, butonly of the demands of their existence; when duty, pitiless, stern,uncompromising, duty held them in its grip; when need, unrelenting,ever present, dominating need, drove them under its lash. She hadknown them only in their hours of leisure--when their minds were freefor the merry jest, the ready laugh, the quick sympathy: now she wascoming to know them in those other hours when their minds were intentupon the battle they waged--when their thoughts were all of theattack, the defense, the advance, the retreat, the victory or defeat.She had known them only in their hours of rest--when their hands wereempty, their nerves and muscles relaxed, their hearts calm and theirbrains cool; now she saw them when their hands held the weapons oftheir warfare--the tools of their craft--when their nerves and muscleswere braced for the strain of the conflict or tense with the effort oftoil; when their hearts beat high with the zeal of their purpose andtheir brains were fired with the excitement of their efforts. She hadknown them only in the hours of their dreaming--when, as they lookedou
t upon life, they talked confidently of the future: she was learningnow to know them when they were working out their dreams; at timeswith hopes high and courage strong; at other times discouraged,frightened, and dismayed. She had known them only as they dreamed ofthe past--when they talked in low tones of the days that were gone:now she saw them as they thought only of the present and the days thatwere to come. So this woman, from the world into which she had gone,gained knowledge of mankind.

  And this is the pity and the danger of it: that the woman gained thisknowledge from a world, that, even as it taught her, denied herwomanhood. The sadness of it all is this: to the world that refused torecognize her womanhood, it was given to teach her that which wouldmake her womanhood complete. The knowledge that she must have tocomplete her womanhood the woman should have gained only from the lifeof her dreams--the life that is beyond that old, old, open doorthrough which she could not pass alone. In the companionship,sympathy, strength, protection, and love, of that one who was to crosswith her the threshold of the door that God set open in the beginning,she should have gained the knowledge of life that would ripen hergirlhood into womanhood. For what else, indeed, has God given love tomen and women? In the strength that would come to her with herchildren, the woman should have been privileged to learn sorrow andpain. In the world that would have honored, above all else, herwomanhood, she should have been permitted to find the knowledge oflife that would perfect and complete her womanhood.

  Fruit, I know, may be picked green from the tree and artificiallyforced to a kind of ripeness. But the fruit that matures underNature's careful hand; that knows in its ripening the warm sunshineand the cleansing showers, the cool of the quiet evening and thefreshness of the dewy morn, the strength of the roaring storms and thesoftness of the caressing breeze--this fruit alone, I say, has theflavor that is from heaven.

  It is a trite saying that many a girl of sixteen, these days, knowsmore of life than her grandmother knew at sixty. It remains to beproven that, because of this knowledge, the young woman of to-day is abetter woman than her grandmother was. But, as the only positive proofwould be her children, the case is very likely to be thrown out ofcourt for lack of evidence for it seems, somehow, that, when womengain Knowledge from that world into which they go alone, leaving theirwomanhood behind, they acquire also a strange pride in being too wiseto mate for love or to bear children. And yet, it is true, that theknowledge that enables a woman to live happy and contented withoutchildren is a damnable knowledge and a menace to the race.

  Poor old world, you are so "grown up" these days and your palate is soeducated to the artificial flavor that you have forgotten, seemingly,how peaches taste when ripened on the trees. God pity you, old world,if you do not soon get back into the orchard before you lose yourtaste for fruit altogether.

  The knowledge that the woman gained from her Occupation made herquestion, more and more, if that one with whom she could cross thethreshold of the door that led to the life of her dreams, would evercome. The knowledge she gained made her doubt her courage to enterthat door with him if he should come. In the knowledge she gained ofthe world into which she had gone alone, her womanhood's onlysalvation was this: that she gained also the knowledge that the worldof men, even as the world of women, is a world of hungry hearts. Itwas this that kept her--that made her strong--that saved her. It wasthis knowledge that saved her womanhood for herself and for the race.

  The week, for the woman, had been a hard week. The day, for her, hadbeen a hard day. When she boarded the car to go to her home she wasvery tired and she was not quite the picture of perfect woman healththat she had been that other Saturday--the time of falling leaves.

  For some unaccountable reason there was one vacant seat left in thecar and she dropped into it with a little inward sigh of relief. Withweary, unseeing, eyes she stared out of the window at the throng ofpeople hurrying along through the mud and slush of the streets. Hertired brain refused to think. Her very soul was faint with lonelinessand the knowledge that she was gaining of life.

  The car stopped again and a party of girls of the high school age,evidently just from the Saturday matinee, crowded in. Clinging to thestraps and the backs of seats, clutching each other with little gustsand ripples of laughter, they filled the aisle of the crowded car witha fresh and joyous life that touched the tired woman like a breath ofspring. In all this work stale, stupidly weary, world there is nothingso refreshing as the wholesome laugh of a happy, care free, younggirl. The woman whose heart was heavy with knowledge of life wouldhave liked to take them in her arms. She felt a sense of gratitude asthough she were indebted to them just for their being. And wouldthese, too--the woman thought--would these, too, be forced by thecustom of the age--by necessity--to go into the world that would notrecognize their womanhood--that would put a price upon the pricelessthings of their womanhood--that would teach them hard lessons of lifeand, with a too early knowledge, crush out the sweet girlishnaturalness, even as a thoughtless foot crushes a tender flower whilestill it is in the bud?

  And thinking thus, perhaps because of her weariness, perhaps becauseof some chance word dropped by the girls as they talked of theirschool and schoolmates, the woman went back again into herYesterdays--to the schoolmates of her Yesterdays. The world in whichshe now lived and labored was forgotten. Forgotten were the worriesand troubles of her grown up life--forgotten the trials anddisappointments--forgotten the new friends, the uncongenialacquaintances, the cruel knowledge, the heartless business--forgotteneverything of the present--all, all, was lost in a golden mist of thelong ago.

  The tall, graceful, girl holding to a strap at the forward end of thecar, in the woman's Yesterdays, lived just beyond the white church atthe corner. The dark haired, dark eyed, round faced one, she knew asthe minister's daughter. While the dainty, doll like, miss clinging toher sturdier sister, in those days of long ago, was the woman's ownparticular chum. And the girl with the yellow curls--the one with thegolden hair--the blue eyed, and the brown--the slender and thestout--every one--belonged to the tired woman's Yesterdays--every oneshe had known in the past and to each she gave a name.

  And then--as the woman, watching the young schoolgirls in the crowdedcar, lived once again those days of the old schoolhouse on the hillwhere, with her girl companions of the long ago, she sought thebeginnings of Knowledge--the boys came, too. Just as in the Yesterdaysthey had come to take their places in the old schoolroom, they came,now, to take their places in the woman's memory.

  There was the tall, thin, lad whose shoulders seemed, even in hisschool days, to find the burden of life too heavy; and who wore alwayson his face such a sad and solemn air that one was almost startledwhen he laughed as though the parson had cracked a joke at a funeral.The woman smiled as she remembered how his clothes were never known tofit him. When his trousers were so short that they barely reachedbelow his knees his coat sleeves covered his hands and the skirts ofthat garment almost swept the ground; but, when the trousers wererolled up at the bottom and hung over his feet like huge bags, hislong, thin, arms showed, half way to his elbows, in a coat that wastoo small to button about even his narrow chest. That boy never missedhis lessons, though, but when he learned them no one ever knew for heseemed to be always drawing grotesque figures and funny faces on hisslate or whittling slyly on some curious toy when the teacher's backwas turned. He had no particular chum or crony. He was never a leaderbut dared to follow the boldest. To the little boys and girls he was ahero; to the older ones he was--"Slim."

  The woman, by chance, had met this old schoolmate, one day, in hergrown up world. In the editorial rooms of a large city daily he wasthe chief, and she noticed that his clothing fitted him a littlebetter; that he was a little broader in the shoulders; a little largeraround the waist; his face was not quite so solemn and his eyes had amore knowing look perhaps. But still--still--the woman could see thathe was, after all, the same old "Slim" and she fancied, with anothersmile, that he often, still, whittled toys when the teacher's back wasturned.

>   Then came the fat boy--"Stuffy." He, too, had another name which doesnot matter. Always in the Yesterdays, as in the to-days, there is a"Stuffy." "Stuffy" was evidently built to roll through life, pushedgently by that special providence that seems to look after the affairsof fat people. His teeth were white and even, his eyes of the deepestblue, and his nose--what there was of it--was almost hidden by cheeksthat were as red and shiny as the apples he always carried in hispocket. He was very generous with those same apples--was"Stuffy"--though one was tempted to think that he shared his fruit notso much from choice but rather because he disliked the hard work thatwas sure to follow a refusal of the pressing invitation to "gohalvers." The woman fancied that she could see again the look ofmingled fun and fear, generosity and greed, that went over herschoolmate's face as he saw the half of his eatable possessions passinto the keeping of his companions. And then, as he watched thetempting morsels disappear, the expression on his face would seem toshow a battle royal between his stomach and his heart, in that herejoiced to see the happiness of his friends, even while he covetedthat which gave them pleasure. She wondered where was "Stuffy" now?She felt sure that he must live in a big house, and drive to and fromhis place of business in a fine carriage, with fine horses and acoachman in livery, and dine and wine his friends as often as he chosewith never a fear that he would run short of good things for himself.She was quite sure, too, that he would suffer with severe attacks ofgout at times and would have four or five half grown daughters and awife of great ambition. Does he, she wondered, does he ever--in thewhirl and rush of business or in the excitement and pleasure of hissocial life--does he ever go back to those other days? Does the grownup "Stuffy" remember how once he traded marbles for candy or boughtsweet cakes with toys?

  And then, there was the boy with the freckled face and tangled hair,whose nose seemed always trying to peep into his own mischief lightedeyes as though wishing to see what new deviltry was breeding there:and his crony, who never could learn the multiplication table, who wasforever swearing vengeance on the teacher, whose clothes were alwaystorn, and who carried frogs and little snakes in his pockets: and thetimid boys who always played in one corner of the yard by themselvesor with the girls or stood by and watched, with mingled admiration andenvy, the games and pranks of the bolder lads: and "Dummy"--poor"Dummy"--the shining mark for every schoolboy trick and joke; with hisshock of yellow hair, his weak cross eyes, his sharp nose, thin lips,and shambling, shuffling, shifting manner--poor "Dummy."

  And of course there was a bully, the Ishmael of the school, whomeverybody shunned and nobody liked; who fought the teacher andfrightened the little children; who chewed, and smoked, and swore, andlied, and did everything bad that a boy could do. He had a fewfollowers, a very few, who joined him rather through fear thanadmiration and not one of whom cared for or trusted him. The womanremembered how this schoolboy face was sadly hard and cold and cruel,as though, because he had gotten so little sunshine from life, hisheart was frozen over. She had read of him, in the grown up world,receiving sentence for a dreadful crime, and, remembering his fatherand mother, had wondered if his grandparents were like them and howmany generations before his birth his career of crime began.

  Again and again, the car had stopped to let people off but the womanhad not noticed. The schoolgirls, all but the tall one who had found aseat, were gone. But the woman had not seen them go.

  And then, as she sat dreaming of the days long gone--as she saw againthe faces of her school day friends, one there was that stood out fromamong them all. It was the face of the boy who lived next door--theboy who had stood with her under the cherry tree; who had put a tinyplay ring of brass upon her finger; and who had kissed her with a kissthat was somehow different. He was the hero of her Yesterdays as hewas the acknowledged chieftain of the school. No one could run sofast, swim so far, dive so deep, or climb so high as he. No one couldthrow him in wrestling or defeat him in boxing. He was their lord,their leader, their boyish master and royally he ruled them all--hiswilling subjects. He it was who stopped the runaway horse; who killedthe big snake; and who pulled the minister's little daughter from thepond. It was he who planned the parties and the picnics; the sleighrides in winter and the berrying trips in summer. It was he whom thegirls all loved and the boys all worshiped--bold, handsome, daring,dashing, careless, generous, leader of the Yesterdays.

  Again she saw his face lifted slyly from a spelling book to smile ather across the aisle. Again she felt the rich, warm, color rush to hercheeks as he took his seat, beside her on the recitation bench. Againher eyes were dimmed with tears when he was punished for some brokenrule or shone with gladness when she heard his clear voice laughingwith his friends or calling to his mates and her.

  And once again, in the late afternoon, with him and with the otherboys and girls, she went down the road from the little schoolhouse inthe edge of the timber on the hill; her sunbonnet hanging by itsstrings and her dinner basket on her arm. Onward, through the longshadows that lay across their way, they went together, to pause atlast before the gate of her home, there to linger for a little, whilethe others still went on. Farther and farther in the evening theywatched their schoolmates go--up the road past the house where helived--past the orchard and over the hill--until, in the distance,they seemed to vanish into the sunset sky and she was left with himalone.

  The conductor called the woman's street but she did not heed. The manin uniform pulled the bell cord and, as the car stopped, called again,looking toward her expectantly. But she did not notice. With a smile,the man, who knew her, approached, and: "Beg your pardon Miss, buthere's your street."

  With blushing cheeks and confused manner, she stammered her thanks,and hurried from the car amid the smiles of the passengers. And thewoman did not know how beautiful she was at that moment. She waswondering: in the hungry hearted world--under all his ambition, plans,and labor, with the knowledge that must have come to him also fromlife--was his heart ever hungry too?