The man was a young man still. For the first time, he felt himself
growing old. Involuntarily he looked at his hands; firm, strong, young
hands they were, but the man, in his fancy, saw them shaking,
withered, and parched, with prominent dull blue veins, and the skinny
fingers bent and crooked with the years. He glanced down at his
powerful, full moulded limbs, and, in fancy, saw them thin and
shrunken with age. And, suddenly, he remembered with a start that the
next day would be his birthday. In the fullness of his young manhood's
strength, he had ignored the passing years even as he had ignored
Death. As he had learned to forget Death, he had learned to forget his
birthdays. It was strange how fast the years were going, thought the
man. Scarcely would there be time for the working out of his dreams.
And, once, it had been such a long, long, time between his birthdays.
Once, he had counted the months, then the weeks, then the days that
lay between. Once, he remembered--
Perhaps it was the thought of his birthday that did it; perhaps it was
the memory of those graves in the old cemetery at home. Whatever it
swas, the man slipped back into his Yesterdays when birthdays were ages
and ages apart and, more than anything else in the world, the boy
wanted to grow up.
At seven, he had looked with envy upon the boy of nine while the years
of grown up men were beyond his comprehension. At nine, fifteen was
the daring limit of his dreams; so far away it seemed that scarcely he
hoped to reach it. As for eighteen--one must be very, very, old,
indeed, to be eighteen. How long the years ahead had seemed,
_then_--and _now_, how short they were when looking back!
And the birthdays--the birthdays that the man had learned to
forget--how could he have learned to forget them! What days of
triumph--what times of victorious rejoicing--those days once had been!
And so, with the fact of Death so recently forced into his life, with
the miles as years slipping under the fast whirring wheels that bore
him onward, the man lived again a birthday in the long ago.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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