It stands to reason then, that the closer you get
to it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't that way
at all.
What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same old
thing over and over again, day after day, week in, week out. Once
he has seen the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the fact
that everything is marked and numbered; that all is system, and that
everything is done today exactly as it was done yesterday, and as
it will be done tomorrow.
"What town is this?" he hears a man inquire of another.
"Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?"
Didn't know what town it was! Didn't care!
The keen morning air, or something, makes a fellow mighty
unromantic, too. Perhaps it was the thin blue wood-smoke from
the field-stoves, and the smell of the hot coffee and the victuals
the waiters are carrying about, some to the tent where the bare
tables are for the canvasmen, some to the table covered with a
red and white table-cloth as befits performers. These have no
rosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly decked with silken
tights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not so much.
They're only folks. That's all, just folks.
But when ideals die, great truths are born. To such a boy at such
a moment there comes the firm conviction which increasing years can
only emphasize: Home is but a poor prosaic place, but Home - Ah,
my brother, think on this - Home is where Breakfast is.
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