280 
MEMORIES OE MISCHIEF. 
“ Oh, the happy days of youth 
Are fast gaun by.’* 
Gilfillan. 
He must be either a very bad or very wretched man who 
does not look back with fond pleasure to the days of his 
boyhood—“the days when hope and life were young ” 
—and bring back from that garden of green memories 
some fruits so refreshing, that now and then a tear shall 
fall on them like a joy-token, which the heart is whiling 
to drop as the price of its new gladness. Boyhood ! Ah, 
how racy is the very word—how suggestive of impulsive 
generosity—of hearty abandonment—of wild, hilarious 
joy—so brimful and excessive, that it scruples at no 
mischief, so its mood be served, and will dare anything 
to gratify its individuality. How unlike girlhood, too 
—how contrasted with the quiet refinement which marks 
the woman, even in the bud. Noise, confusion, non¬ 
sense, and unbounded laughter, with an innate love of 
mischief, which no philosophy can account for, form the 
elementary traits of boy-life : but the girl steals away to 
her beads, her doll, and her skipping-rope—dreading to 
be thought a “ romp,” and looking suspiciously on 
manifestations of boisterousness in any of her fellows. 
