The following excerpt is
from
Farmington, Darrow's 1904 autobiographical novel:
CHILDHOOD SURROUNDINGS
The difference between the child and
the man lies chiefly in the unlimited confidence and buoyancy of youth.
The
life of the child is not the life
of the man, and the town of the child is not the town of the man.
I
can never see Farmington except through
my boyhood's eyes, and no doubt the town and its people were not at all
the same to the men and the women that they were to me. Every object
meant
one thing to them and quite a different thing to our childish minds. As
I grew to boyhood, the mill-pond was only a place where I could fish
and
skate and swim, and the great turning wheel served only to divert my
wondering
eyes and ears as it kept up its noisy rounds. The old mill furnished us
boys a place to hide and run and play our games. The whole scheme of
things
was ours, and was utilized by a boy's varying needs to help fill up his
life.
To
the kind old miller the condition
of the water in the pond was doubtless quite another thing, and every
revolution
of the groaning wheel must have meant bread to him-not only bread for
the
customers whose grain he ground, but sorely-needed bread for the hungry
mouths of those who had no thought or care whence or how it came, but
only
unbounded faith that it would always be ready to satisfy their needs.
It
is only by imagination, through
the hard experience life has brought, that I know these familiar things
had a different, meaning to the old miller and to me. Yet even now I am
sure that they had for him a deeper or more vital sense. Perhaps the
water
for my swimming-hole was as important as the water for his bread. For
after
all, both were needed, in their several ways, to make more tolerable
the
ever-illusive game of life.
But
I must describe Farmington and
its people as they seemed to me-as in fact they were according to their
utility in the schemes of a little child.
The
world seems to take for granted
that every parent hero to his children, and that they look to the
father
and mother as to almost superhuman beings whose power they cannot
understand,
but can rely upon with implicit faith. Even the street signs tell this
old tale, and advertise "pies like mother used make." No doubt the
infant
looks with perfect confidence to the eyes of the mother who gave it
birth,
and in its tender years the child has the utmost trust in the wisdom
and
protection the parent to whom it has always looked to satisfy its
needs.
But I cannot remember that in my youth either I, or any of companions,
had the feeling and regard for our parents that commonly assumed. In
fact,
we believed that, as to wisdom a general ability to cope with the
affairs
of life, we were super to them; and we early came to see their
shortcomings
rather than their strength. I cannot say that I looked upon my mother
even
as a cook exactly in the light of the street-car advertisements, but I
distinctly recall that often when I visited the woodsheds neighboring
children
and was kindly given a piece of pie cake, I went back home and told my
mother how much better this pie tasted than the kind she baked, and
asked
her why she did not make pies and cakes the way the neighbors did. To
these
suggestions I ever got the same reply-if I did not like cooking I could
go elsewhere to board. Of course this put a stop to all discussion. I
am
quite certain that it is only after long years of absence, when we look
back upon our childhood homes, the bread and pies are mixed with a
tender
sentiment that makes imagine they were better than in fact they really
were. I rather fancy that if our mother's cooking were set before us
once
again, we should need the strong primitive appetite of our youth to
make
it taste as our imagination tells us that it did.
As
to my father, I am sure I never
thought he was a man of extraordinary power. In fact, from the time I
was
a little child I often urged him to do things in a different way
especially
as to his rules about my studies and my schooling. I never believed
that
he ran the mill in the best way; and I used to think that other men
were
stronger or richer, or kinder to their children, than my father was to
us. It was only after years had passed, and I looked back through the
hazy
mist that hung about his ambitions and his life, that I could realize
how
great he really was. As a child, I had no doubt that any man could
create
conditions for himself; the copybooks had told me so, and the teachers
had assured us in the most positive way that our success was with
ourselves.
It took years of care and toll to show me that life is stronger than
man,
that conditions control individuals. It is with this knowledge that I
look
back at the old miller, with his fatal love of books; that I see him as
he surveys every position the world offers to her favored sons. He
knows
them all and understands them all, and he knows the conditions on which
they have ever been bestowed; yet he could bury these
ambitions·one
by one, and cover them so deep as almost to forget they had once been a
portion of his life, and in full sight of the glories of the promised
land
could day by day live in the dust and hum of his ever-turning mill, and
take from the farmers' grist the toll that filled the mouths of his
little
brood. To appreciate and understand the greatness of the simple life,
one
must know life; and this the child of whatever age can never understand.
After
my father and mother-whom I did
not appreciate, and who, I am bound to think, but half understand me-no
other men or women came very near my life. My relations were with the
boys
and girls, especially the boys. The men and women were there only to
board
and clothe the children, and furnish them with a place to sleep at
night.
To be sure, we knew something of all the men and women in the town, but
we saw them only through childish eyes. There was the blacksmith, who
was
very strong, and whom we liked and called "clever" because he sometimes
helped us with our games. There was one old farmer in particular, who
had
a large orchard and a fierce dog, and who would let his apples rot on
the
ground rather than give us one to eat. We hated him and called him
stingy
and a miser. Perhaps he was not that sort of a man at all, and the dog
may not have been so very fierce. No doubt someone had given them bad
names,
and the people preferred to believe evil of them instead of good.
Then
there was the town drunkard, whom
all of us knew. We liked him when he was sober, although we were told
that
he was very bad; but he always laughed and joked with us, and watched
our
games in a friendly way, but when we heard that he was drunk we were
all
afraid of him and ran away. Then there was another man who kept a
little
store, and we knew he was very rich; we had no idea how much he was
really
worth, but anyhow we knew he was rich. And so on, through all the
neighborhood,
we knew something of the men, and classified them by some one trait or
supposed fact-just as the grown-up world always persists it has a right
to do.
The
women, too, we knew even better
than the men, for it was the mothers who controlled the boys, and in
almost
every case it depended on them alone whether or not the boys might go
and
play. Still, we children only knew and cared about the grown-up people
in a remote secondary way. Every home was full of boys, and by common
affinity
these boys were always together-at least, as many of them as could get
away from home. As a rule, the goodness and desirability of a parent
were
in exact proportion to the ease with which the children could get away
from home. I am afraid that in this child's world my good parents stood
very low upon the list-much lower than I wished them to stand.
We
children had our regular season's
round of games and sports. There was no part of the year in which we
could
not play, and each season had its special charm. There might not have p
been much foundation for the custom, but somehow certain the games were
dropped unceremoniously and left for another year.
Of
course the little creek and the
great millpond and the river were sources of never-failing delight. I
cannot
remember when I learned to swim, but I learned it very young and very
well;
and it was lucky that I did, for I have been in deep water many times
since
then. The boys seemed to prefer water to land-that is, water like a
pond
or a stream. We did not care for the kitchen tub and the wash-basin. It
was the constant aim of our parents and teachers to keep us out of the
water for at least a portion of the time, and they laid down strict
rules
as to when and how often we should go swimming. But when boys are away
from home they are apt to forget what teachers and parents say; and we
always contrived to get more swimming than the rules prescribed. This
would
have been easier except for the fact that it generally took us so long
to dry our hair, and our teachers and parents could often detect our
swimming
by simply feeling of our heads. I shall always remember that a boy was
never supposed to be a complete swimmer until he could swim the "big
bend."
There was a bend in the river which was wide and deep, and a favorite
swimming-place
for the larger boys. I well remember the first time I swam across, and
I have accomplished few feats that compared with this. All my life I
had
supposed that the big bend was very broad and deep, until I made a
special
examination of the place on my last visit, a little time ago, and
really
it was so changed that I could almost wade across. Still, at that very
time there were little boys in the stream just getting ready to perform
the same feat that I had accomplished long ago.
The
same water that served us in summertime
delighted us equally in the winter months. We learned to skate as early
as we learned to swim. Our skates were not the fancy kind that are used
today, but were made of steel and wood, and were fastened to our boots
with straps. Few boys could skate long without the straps coming loose;
but then, a few difficulties more or have little terror for a boy. It
would
be hard to make a town better fitted for boys than Farmington; even the
high hills were made for coasting in the wintertime. In fact, nothing
was
lacking to us except that our parents and teachers were not so kind and
considerate as they should have been.
In
the summertime we often climbed
to the top of the hills and looked down the valley to see the river
winding
off on its everlasting course. Then we would fancy that we were
mountaineers
and explorers, and would pick our way along the hills with the
beautiful
valley far beneath. I do not know why we climbed the hills in the
summertime.
It could not have been for the scenery, which was really fine, for boys
care little for this sort of thing. The love of nature comes with
maturing
years and is one of the few compensations for growing old. More and
more
as the years go by we love the sun and the green earth, the silent
mountains
and the ever-moving sea. It seems as if slowly and all unawares our
Mother
Nature prepares and ripens us to be taken back to her all-embracing
breast.
But
boys like hills and animals and
trees, not so much because they are part of nature as for the fife and
activity they bring. So we climbed the hills and the trees, and went
far
down the winding stream for no purpose except to go, and when we
reached
the point for which we started out we turned around and came back home.
Still, since I have grown to man's estate I do the self-same thing. I
make
my plans to go to a foreign port, and with great trouble and expense
travel
halfway round the earth, and then, not content with the new places I
have
found, and longing for the old ones once again, I turn back and journey
home.
Since
the days when we children followed
the crests of the hills along the valley, this lovely scene has fallen
under the notice of a business man. He has built a hotel on the top of
the highest hill, overlooking the valleys and the little town, and in
the
summertime its wide verandas are filled day after day with women, young
and old, who sit and swing in hammocks, and read Richard Harding Davis
and Winston Churchill, and watch for the mail and wait for the
dinner-bell
to ring.
With
what never-ending schemes our
youth was filled, and in what quick succession each followed on the
others'
heels! Our most cherished plans fell far short of what we hoped and
dreamed.
Somehow everything in the world conspired to defeat our ends, and most
of 0, our own childish nature, which jumped from fad to fancy in such
quick
succession that we could never do more than just begin. Even when we
carried
our plans almost to completion, their result was always far short of
the
thought our minds conceived.
With
what infinite pains and unbounded
hopes we prepared to go nutting in the woods! How many bags and sacks
we
took, and how surely these came back almost empty with the boys who
started
out with such high hopes as the sun rose up! How often did we prepare
the
night before to go blackberrying in the choicest spots, but after a
long
day of bruises and wasp-bites and scratches, come back with almost
empty
pails! Still, our failures in no way dampened the ardor of any new
scheme
we formed.
We
could run and jump and throw stones
with the greatest ease; but when we put any of our efforts to the test,
we never ran so fast or jumped so high or threw a stone so far as we
thought
and said we could-and yet our failures had no effect in teaching us
moderation
in any other scheme. I well remember one ambitious lad who started out
to make a cart. He planned and worked faithfully, until the wonderful
structure
took on the semblance of a cart. Then his interest began to flag, and
the
work went on more slowly than before. For days and weeks we used to
come
to his shop and ask, "Will, when are you going to finish your cart?" We
asked this so often that finally it became a standing joke, and the
cart
was given up in shame and chagrin.
When
the snow was soft and damp, we
often planned to make a giant snow-man or an enormous fort. We laid out
our work on a grand scale, and started in with great industry and
energy
to accomplish it. But long before it was finished, the rain came down
or
the sun shone so hot that our work and schemes melted away before our
eyes.
So,
too, the grown-up children build
and build, and never complete what they begin. When the last day comes,
it finds us all busy with unfinished schemes-that is, all who ever try
to build. But this is doubtless better than not to try at all.
The
difference between the child and
the man lies chiefly in the unlimited confidence and buoyancy of youth.
The past failure is wholly forgotten in the new idea. As we grow older,
more and more do we remember how our plans fell short; more and more do
we realize that no hope reaches full fruition and no dream is ever
quite
fulfilled. Age and life make us doubtful about new schemes, until at
last
we no longer even try.
Well,
our youth brought its mistakes
and its failures, its errors of judgment and its dreams so hopeless to
achieve. But still it carried with it ambition and life, a boundless
hope,
and an energy which only time and years could quench. So, after all,
perhaps
childhood is the reality, and in maturity we simply doze and dream.