We might write
playfully, but there must be conscience and reverence somewhere
within it all. We had been taught, and we believed, that idle
words were a sin, whether spoken or written. This, no doubt, gave
us a gravity of expression rather unnatural to youth.
In looking over the bound volume of this magazine, I am amused at
the grown-up style of thought assumed by myself, probably its
very youngest contributor. I wrote a dissertation on "Fame,"
quoting from Pollok, Cowper, and Milton, and ending with Diedrich
Knickerbocker's definition of immortal fame,--"Half a page of
dirty paper." For other titles I had "Thoughts on Beauty;"
"Gentility;" "Sympathy," etc. And in one longish poem, entitled
"My Childhood" (written when I was about fifteen), I find verses
like these, which would seem to have come out of a mature
experience:--
My childhood! O those pleasant days, when everything seemed
free,
And in the broad and verdant fields I frolicked merrily;
When joy came to my bounding heart with every wild bird's song,
And Nature's music in my ears was ringing all day long!
And yet I would not call them back, those blessed times of
yore,
For riper years are fraught with joys I dreamed not of before.
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