OF course I do not mean to tell what the town was as men knew it, but
only as it appeared to the boys who made use of its opportunities for
having fun. The civic centre was the court-house, with the county
buildings about it in the court-house yard; and the great thing in the
court-house was the town clock. It was more important in the boys'
esteem than even the wooden woman, who had a sword in one hand and a
pair of scales in the other. Her eyes were blinded; and the boys
believed that she would be as high as a house if she stood on the
ground. She was above the clock, which was so far up in the air, against
the summer sky which was always blue, that it made your neck ache to
look up at it; and the bell was so large that once when my boy was a
very little fellow, and was in the belfry with his brother, to see if
they could get some of the pigeons that nested there, and the clock
began to strike, it almost smote him dead with the terror of its sound,
and he felt his heart quiver with the vibration of the air between the
strokes. It seemed to him that he should never live to get down; and he
never knew how he did get down. He could remember being in the
court-house after that, one night when a wandering professor gave an
exhibition in the court-room, and showed the effects of laughing-gas on
such men and boys as were willing to breathe it. It was the same gas
that dentists now give when they draw teeth; but it was then used to
make people merry and truthful, to make them laugh and say just what
they thought. My boy was too young to know whether it did either; but he
was exactly the right age, when on another night there was a large
picture of Death on a Pale Horse shown, to be harrowed to the bottom of
his soul by its ghastliness. When he was much older, his father urged
him to go to the court-house and hear the great Corwin, whose Mexican
War speech he had learned so much of by heart, arguing a case; but the
boy was too bashful to go in when he got to the door, and came back and
reported that he was afraid they would make him swear. He was sometimes
in the court-house yard, at elections and celebrations; and once he came
from school at recess with some other boys and explored the region of
the jail. Two or three prisoners were at the window, and they talked to
the boys and joked; and the boys ran off again and played; and the
prisoners remained like unreal things in my boy's fancy. Perhaps if it
were not for this unreality which misery puts on for the happy when it
is out of sight, no one could be happy in a world where there is so much
misery.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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