In most men worth considering there appears to be, from three to ninety, an ineradicable boyhood. Give the lad, of six or sixty, a horse or a boat or a holiday, and he forgets the world and begins playing.
In most men worth considering there appears to be, from three to ninety, an ineradicable boyhood. Give the lad, of six or sixty, a horse or a boat or a holiday, and he forgets the world and begins playing.
A list of such men whom one knows would be, happily, an encyclopædia. This book is dedicated to all such, between the lines of the names below. You whom I remember in Kentucky, and You in the West, and You across the room, smoking, and You in the crowded city, and You where velvet mountains rim the sky-line—will know that You are in this inscription. So the inscription goes, with many names unnamed, to a splendid phalanx of young Americans, lately boys in years, graduates of Yale, friends of mine:
E. Farrar Bateson, Lucius Horatio Biglow, Paul Howard McGregor Converse, Douglas Fitch Guilford Eliot, William Brown Glover, Allen Trafford Klots, Francis Ely Norris, George Richardson, Harold Phelps Stokes, Horace Winston Stokes, Francis Berger Trudeau, James Thornton, Francis Melzar Watrous, and Paul Shipman Andrews.