Identifier: saturdayeveningp1933unse (find matches)
Title: The Saturday evening post
Year: 1839 (1830s)
Authors:
Subjects:
Publisher: Philadelphia : G. Graham
Contributing Library: University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign
Digitizing Sponsor: University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

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urrgd away. But that I am for-bid To tell the se-crets of my prrison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest worrdd Would harr-row up thy soul, fer-reze thy young blood Ah, it come big and strong! You could hear me rightout to the street. Yes, sir-ree, I had a fine voice them days.And Booth, he jumps like a cannon ball hit him and says:Young man, a ghost with a voice like that will be hearddown the centuries. But he was a human man, was thegreat Booth, and he must ha been afeared my voice woulddrown his, for he never let me play the ghost. They mademe a guest in the banquet scene. I was a fine figger of ayoung feller them days, and wore tights like a kid glove. And how did you happen to quit the stage, Pop? Jealousy, my boy, jealousy. The leadin men was al-ways afeared Id steal their thunder. They always got ridO1 me somehow. Ah, it was a great pity—with my future! They turned away. They straggled, laughing, towardtheir dressing rooms, leaving him a sandwich and a bottleof beer.
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Ive Asked Miss Eileen to Co to Supper, He Said,and She Tells Me You Have to be Notified The ghost that never walked, exploded one. Thepoor dub spins that yarn so often he honestly believes itby this time. Poor old has-been! You flatter him, dearie. Hes a never-was. They trailed out of hearing, their laughter trailing back.Pallid blue eyes, washed transparent by the waters ofregret, eyes that had seen much and observed more, gazedafter the gay group that took no count of lonely age orcreeping time. How could they be expected to know thatthe story he loved to tell was self-justification, his apologyto his own soul for dreams that had never come true?How could they guess that the tears no man permits him-self in the glaring light of day gathered in the very well-springs of his being during the hours on duty and escapedonly when the blessed hand of sleep drew them forth withcool finger tips? How could they fathom a lonely oldmans realization, as he gazed toward the setting sun, thatlife h

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