MEMORIES OF THE OLD TRUNK

The other day while searching through an old trunk for a lost paper, I came across a little pasteboard box. Inside the box I found a photo of a three-year-old boy with Fontleroy curls, and in the same box I found those curls of beaten gold. I called to my wife, and together we examined the relics of a bygone day. This was the picture of our baby boy, and I recalled how, twelve years ago, we took him to the photographer and posed him for his picture; and from there we took him to the barber’s and had his curls cut off. He could not always remain our baby. We had postponed the sad day for several months, and when we brought him back home and his grandmother caught sight of the shorn boy, she took him in her arms and cried: “Oh, where is my baby? You have traded him off for a boy!”

Strange how these things affect us. Strange how these babies grow out of childhood and go exploring through boyhoodland. Our baby disappeared the moment his last curl was severed, and a boy took his place in our affection. Now that boy is passing from us. He is growing tall and stout, and his voice is changing. The moment we put long trousers on him and hide those sturdy legs he will be a young man. The boy will pass away as did the baby in curls, leaving a peculiar sadness at our hearts. That baby did not die, and yet he passed away from us as completely as though we had placed him in a little grave. And some day soon the boyish face will change to that of a man, and the boy will be gone forever.

I still recall the first evening we saw the boy sleeping on his bed, after shorn of his curls, and his mother said to me: “No one can tell how sadly I feel at this great change.” “I believe I do,” I replied; “and I will try to put down on paper some of the emotions passing through your heart. They are in mine too.”

And so I did try to write of her emotions, and the lines were still in the old trunk, tied up with the photo and

THE SEVERED CURLS

My baby boy was three years old,
His curls were a joy to see;
Their color was that of beaten gold,
But of far more value to me.
They hung in clusters about his head,
And shaded his baby brow;
Surrounding his dimpled cheeks so red—
But they’re gone forever now!
The neighbors all laughed at me, and said:
Don’t make him a Fontleroy;
So I kissed the curls on the darling head
Of my own dear baby boy.
And told the barber to go ahead,
In a voice made sad with tears;
And none will know how my poor heart bled
When I heard the swish of the shears.
I watched him through till the task was done,
And gathered the severed curls.
Then clasped to my heart my plundered son—
Still more to me than worlds.
But he was no longer my baby now;
He seemed to have grown in years.
I kissed his cheeks and plundered brow,
And struggled with my tears.
And now in a little box I keep
These treasures I loved so dear,
And when the household is still in sleep,
And the breath of slumber I hear,
I take those curls from their little nest
And live o’er the past again;
And hug them close to my aching breast,
To smother a strange, sad pain.
Yes, new curls may grow again, but oh,
They never will be like these!
For time is passing, and babies grow,
And travel over seas;
And mothers remain at home through years,
While the early memories die,
And I bathe those curls once more in tears,
And go to bed with a sigh.

And on the day we found those curls, and read these lines aloud, we could look through the window and see our boy coming home from school. “In a little while,” I said, “the boy will disappear with the baby, and the man will grow out of the ashes. Oh, this is a strange world, and were it not for our memories, life would be short indeed! How sad, how sweet, how full of sentiment, how inspiring to live over the past.”