The Crock of Gold by James Stephens (simple ebook reader txt) 📖

“There is a stream four paces from here,” said his companion. “I will get some water in my cap,” and he leaped away.

In a few moments he came back holding his cap tenderly, and the Philosopher took this and drank the water.

“I want nothing more in the world,” said he, “except to talk with you. The sun is shining, the wind is pleasant, and the grass is soft. Sit down beside me again for a little time.”

So the boy sat down, and the Philosopher lit his pipe.

“Do you live far from here?” said he.

“Not far,” said the boy. “You could see my mother’s house from this place if you were as tall as a tree, and even from the ground you can see a shape of smoke yonder that floats over our cottage.”

The Philosopher looked but could see nothing.

“My eyes are not as good as yours are,” said he, “because I am getting old.”

“What does it feel like to be old?” said the boy.

“It feels stiff like,” said the Philosopher.

“Is that all?” said the boy.

“I don’t know,” the Philosopher replied after a few moments’ silence. “Can you tell me what it looks like to be young?”

“Why not?” said the boy, and then a slight look of perplexity crossed his face, and he continued, “I don’t think I can.”

“Young people,” said the Philosopher, “do not know what age is, and old people forget what youth was. When you begin to grow old always think deeply of your youth, for an old man without memories is a wasted life, and nothing is worth remembering but our childhood. I will tell you some of the differences between being old and young, and then you can ask me questions, and so we will get at both sides of the matter. First, an old man gets tired quicker than a boy.”

The boy thought for a moment, and then replied:

“That is not a great difference, for a boy does get very tired.”

The Philosopher continued:

“An old man does not want to eat as often as a boy.”

“That is not a great difference either,” the boy replied, “for they both do eat. Tell me the big difference.”

“I do not know it, my son; but I have always thought there was a big difference. Perhaps it is that an old man has memories of things which a boy cannot even guess at.”

“But they both have memories,” said the boy, laughing, “and so it is not a big difference.”

“That is true,” said the Philosopher. “Maybe there is not so much difference after all. Tell me things you do, and we will see if I can do them also.”

“But I don’t know what I do,” he replied.

“You must know the things you do,” said the Philosopher, “but you may not understand how to put them in order. The great trouble about any kind of examination is to know where to begin, but there are always two places in everything with which we can commence—they are the beginning and the end. From either of these points a view may be had which comprehends the entire period. So we will begin with the things you did this morning.”

“I am satisfied with that,” said the boy.

The Philosopher then continued:

“When you awakened this morning and went out of the house what was the first thing you did?”

The boy thought “I went out, then I picked up a stone and threw it into the field as far as I could.”

“What then?” said the Philosopher.

“Then I ran after the stone to see could I catch up on it before it hit the ground.”

“Yes,” said the Philosopher.

“I ran so fast that I tumbled over myself into the grass.”

“What did you do after that?”

“I lay where I fell and plucked handfuls of the grass with both hands and threw them on my back.”

“Did you get up then?”

“No, I pressed my face into the grass and shouted a lot of times with my mouth against the ground, and then I sat up and did not move for a long time.”

“Were you thinking?” said the Philosopher.

“No, I was not thinking or doing anything.”

“Why did you do all these things?” said the Philosopher.

“For no reason at all,” said the boy.

“That,” said the Philosopher triumphantly, “is the difference between age and youth. Boys do things for no reason, and old people do not. I wonder do we get old because we do things by reason instead of instinct?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, “everything gets old. Have you travelled very far to-day, sir?”

“I will tell you that if you will tell me your name.”

“My name,” said the boy, “is MacCushin.”

“When I came last night,” said the Philosopher, “from the place of Angus Og in the Caste of the Sleepers I was bidden say to one named MacCushin that a son would be born to Angus Og and his wife, Caitilin, and that the sleepers of Erinn had turned in their slumbers.”

The boy regarded him steadfastly.

“I know,” said he, “why Angus Og sent me that message. He wants me to make a poem to the people of Erinn, so that when the Sleepers arise they will meet with friends.”

“The Sleepers have arisen,” said the Philosopher. “They are about us on every side. They are walking now, but they have forgotten their names and the meanings of their names. You are to tell them their names and their lineage, for I am an old man, and my work is done.”

“I will make a poem some day,” said the boy, “and every man will shout when he hears it.”

“God be with you, my son,” said the Philosopher, and he embraced the boy and went forward on his journey.

About half an hour’s easy travelling brought him to a point from which he could see far down below to the pine trees of Coille Doraca. The shadowy evening had crept over the world ere he reached the wood, and when he entered the little house the darkness had already descended.