The Friendly Road [58]
opaque; I have plenty of red blood running in my veins. I assure you that I am a person well worth knowing."
I should really have enjoyed some such outlandish enterprise, and I am not at all sure yet that it would not have brought me adventures and made me friends worth while. We fail far more often by under-daring than by over-daring.
But this imaginary object had the result, at least, of giving me a new grip on things. I began to look out upon the amazing spectacle before me in a different mood. It was exactly like some enormous anthill into which an idle traveller had thrust his cane. Everywhere the ants were running out of their tunnels and burrows, many carrying burdens and giving one strangely the impression that while they were intensely alive and active, not more than half of them had any clear idea of where they were going. And serious, deadly serious, in their haste! I felt a strong inclination to stop a few of them and say:
"Friends, cheer up. It isn't half as bad as you think it is. Cheer up!"
After a time the severity of the human flood began to abate, and here and there at the bottom of that gulch of a street, which had begun to fill with soft, bluish-gray shadows, the evening lights a appeared. The air had grown cooler; in the distance around a corner I heard a street organ break suddenly and joyously into the lively strains of "The Wearin' o' the Green."
I stepped out into the street with quite a new feeling of adventure. And as if to testify that I was now a visible person a sharp-eyed newsboy discovered me--the first human being in Kilburn who had actually seen me --and came up with a paper in his hand.
"Herald, boss?"
I was interested in the shrewd, world-wise, humorous look in the urchin's eyes.
"No," I began, with the full intent of bantering him into some sort of acquaintance; but he evidently measured my purchasing capacity quite accurately, for he turned like a flash to another customer. "Herald, boss?"
"You'll have to step lively, David Grayson," I said to myself, "if you get aboard in this city."
A slouchy negro with a cigarette in his fingers glanced at me in passing and then, hesitating, turned quickly toward me.
"Got a match, boss?"
I gave him a match.
"Thank you, boss," and he passed on down the street.
"I seem to be 'boss' around here," I said.
This contact, slight as it was, gave me a feeling of warmth, removed a little the sensation of aloofness I had felt, and I strolled slowly down the street, looking in at the gay windows, now ablaze with lights, and watching the really wonderful procession of vehicles of all shapes and sizes that rattled by on the pavement. Even at that hour of the day I think there were more of them in one minute than I see in a whole month at my farm.
It's a great thing to wear shabby clothes and an old hat. Some of the best things I have ever known, like these experiences of the streets, have resulted from coming up to life from underneath; of being taken for less than I am rather than for more than I am.
I did not always believe in this doctrine. For many years--the years before I was rightly born into this alluring world--I tried quite the opposite course. I was constantly attempting to come down to life from above. Instead of being content to carry through life a sufficiently wonderful being named David Grayson I tried desperately to set up and support a sort of dummy creature which, so clad, so housed, so fed, should appear to be what I thought David Grayson ought to appear in the eyes of the world. Oh, I spent quite a lifetime trying to satisfy other people!
Once I remember staying at home, in bed, reading "Huckleberry Finn," while I sent my trousers out to be mended.
Well, that dummy Grayson perished in a cornfield. His empty coat served well for a scarecrow. A wisp of straw stuck out through a hole in his finest hat.
And I--the man within--I escaped, and have been out freely upon the great adventure of life.
If a shabby coat (and I speak here also symbolically, not forgetful of spiritual significances)
I should really have enjoyed some such outlandish enterprise, and I am not at all sure yet that it would not have brought me adventures and made me friends worth while. We fail far more often by under-daring than by over-daring.
But this imaginary object had the result, at least, of giving me a new grip on things. I began to look out upon the amazing spectacle before me in a different mood. It was exactly like some enormous anthill into which an idle traveller had thrust his cane. Everywhere the ants were running out of their tunnels and burrows, many carrying burdens and giving one strangely the impression that while they were intensely alive and active, not more than half of them had any clear idea of where they were going. And serious, deadly serious, in their haste! I felt a strong inclination to stop a few of them and say:
"Friends, cheer up. It isn't half as bad as you think it is. Cheer up!"
After a time the severity of the human flood began to abate, and here and there at the bottom of that gulch of a street, which had begun to fill with soft, bluish-gray shadows, the evening lights a appeared. The air had grown cooler; in the distance around a corner I heard a street organ break suddenly and joyously into the lively strains of "The Wearin' o' the Green."
I stepped out into the street with quite a new feeling of adventure. And as if to testify that I was now a visible person a sharp-eyed newsboy discovered me--the first human being in Kilburn who had actually seen me --and came up with a paper in his hand.
"Herald, boss?"
I was interested in the shrewd, world-wise, humorous look in the urchin's eyes.
"No," I began, with the full intent of bantering him into some sort of acquaintance; but he evidently measured my purchasing capacity quite accurately, for he turned like a flash to another customer. "Herald, boss?"
"You'll have to step lively, David Grayson," I said to myself, "if you get aboard in this city."
A slouchy negro with a cigarette in his fingers glanced at me in passing and then, hesitating, turned quickly toward me.
"Got a match, boss?"
I gave him a match.
"Thank you, boss," and he passed on down the street.
"I seem to be 'boss' around here," I said.
This contact, slight as it was, gave me a feeling of warmth, removed a little the sensation of aloofness I had felt, and I strolled slowly down the street, looking in at the gay windows, now ablaze with lights, and watching the really wonderful procession of vehicles of all shapes and sizes that rattled by on the pavement. Even at that hour of the day I think there were more of them in one minute than I see in a whole month at my farm.
It's a great thing to wear shabby clothes and an old hat. Some of the best things I have ever known, like these experiences of the streets, have resulted from coming up to life from underneath; of being taken for less than I am rather than for more than I am.
I did not always believe in this doctrine. For many years--the years before I was rightly born into this alluring world--I tried quite the opposite course. I was constantly attempting to come down to life from above. Instead of being content to carry through life a sufficiently wonderful being named David Grayson I tried desperately to set up and support a sort of dummy creature which, so clad, so housed, so fed, should appear to be what I thought David Grayson ought to appear in the eyes of the world. Oh, I spent quite a lifetime trying to satisfy other people!
Once I remember staying at home, in bed, reading "Huckleberry Finn," while I sent my trousers out to be mended.
Well, that dummy Grayson perished in a cornfield. His empty coat served well for a scarecrow. A wisp of straw stuck out through a hole in his finest hat.
And I--the man within--I escaped, and have been out freely upon the great adventure of life.
If a shabby coat (and I speak here also symbolically, not forgetful of spiritual significances)