"As long as we stick together, Tim," I whispered in return.
He laughed. Of course we would always stand together.
That was long ago. Life is an everlasting waking up. We leave behind
us an endless trail of dreams. The real life is but a waking moment.
After all, it was the real Tim who had gone singing by as I crouched in
the shadow of the school-house. The comrade of my school-days, who had
fought for me with eyes closed and with the fury of a child, the
companion of the hunt, racing with me over the ridges with Captain
singing on before us, the brother at the fireside at night, poring over
some rare novel--he was only a phantom. Between me and the real man
there was no bond. He had grown above the valley; I was becoming more
and more a part of it, like the lone pine on Gander Knob, or the
piebald horse that drew the stage. His clothes alone had made wider
the breach between us. At first I had admired him. I was proud of my
brother. But Solomon in all his glory was dressed in his best; from
Dives to Lazarus is largely a matter of garments.
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