And this man was at the show and he went back
in the dressing-room, and held Little Arthur's hand. And the clown
was crying, and the actors were crying, for they all loved Little
Arthur in their rude, untutored way. And Little Arthur opened his
large sensitive violet eyes, and saw the man, and said off the text
that the man taught him that afternoon.
And then he died. It was a sad story, but it made you wish it had
been you that happened to have a Bible in your pocket as you passed
the secluded, vine-clad nook only a few paces from the main tent,
and had heard Little Arthur sigh so pitifully. It was those
sensitive eyes we looked for in the sleeping-car windows, and all
in vain. I think I saw the wealth of clustering ringlets, or at
least the makings of it. I am almost positive I saw curl-papers
as the curtain was drawn aside a moment.
But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over to
the lots, there is something pathetic about it, something almost
terrible. It is the death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boy
coming down to the depot to see the circus train come in another
time. Hitherto, the show has been to him the ne plus ultra of
romance. It comes in the night from 'way off yonder; it goes in
the night to 'way off yonder. It is all splendor, all deeds of
high emprise.
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