He was a bright-eyed,
eager little man. One felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him.
We build our heaven of the stones of our desires: to the old,
red-bearded Norseman, a foe to fight and a cup to drain; to the
artistic Greek, a grove of animated statuary; to the Red Indian, his
happy hunting ground; to the Turk, his harem; to the Jew, his New
Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, according to their taste,
limited by the range of their imagination.
Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than Heaven--as
pictured for me by certain of the good folks round about me. I was
told that if I were a good lad, kept my hair tidy, and did not tease
the cat, I would probably, when I died, go to a place where all day
long I would sit still and sing hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a
healthy boy for being good.) There would be no breakfast and no
dinner, no tea and no supper. One old lady cheered me a little with
a hint that the monotony might be broken by a little manna; but the
idea of everlasting manna palled upon me, and my suggestions,
concerning the possibilities of sherbet or jumbles, were scouted as
irreverent. There would be no school, but also there would be no
cricket and no rounders.
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