For you who recall the fluttering of school-book leaves,
at desks now gone to dust, and the waving of sunny hair in
the air of long ago; childhood's holy friendship and early
ambitions that were never lost; to whom the breezy hills
and mist-loving vales and crackling, frosty, winter-walks of
boyhood are still clear cut, up in the sky of thought, as
Marathon and Platæa, and sheeny with a part of the same
glory that wraps those earlier fields of history, — for you who
have been boys, or are boys, or like boys, this book is lovingly
written.
