I cannot believe
we run but once. In the heart of the man who wrote the book there
lives a child. And a child dwells in the heart of the woman of the
lending library.

We are too ready to believe that childhood passes with the years--that
its fine imagination is blunted with the hard practice of the world.
Too long have we been taught that the clouds of glory fade in the
common day--that the lofty castles of the morning perish in the
noon-day sun. The magic vista is golden to the coming of the twilight,
and the sunset builds a gaudy tower that out-tops the dawn. If a man
permits, a child keeps house within his heart to the very end.

And therefore, as I think of those whittled daggers with their spot of
blood, of that popping pistol, of the captain's horrid hook, of the
black craft flying the skull and crossbones in the attic, I know,
despite appearance, that I am young myself. I snap my fingers at the
clock. It ticks merely for its own amusement. I proclaim the calendar
is false. The sun rises and sets but makes no chilling notch upon the
heart. Once again, despite the weary signpost of the years, I run on
the laughing avenues of childhood.

[Illustration]

My preface outstays its time. Even as I write our audience has
gathered. Limber folk in front squat on the floor. Bearded folk behind
perch on chairs as on a balcony. Already, behind the scenes, the
captain of the pirates has assumed his hook and villainous attire.
Patch-Eye mumbles his lines against a loss of memory. Paint has daubed
him to a rascal. The evil Duke limps for practice on his timber leg.
Presently our curtain will rise. We shall see the pirate cabin, with
the lighthouse blinking in the distance, the parrot, Flint's lantern
and the ladder to the sleeping loft. We shall hear a storm
unparalleled, like a tempest from the ocean--hissed through the teeth.
We shall see the pirates in tattered costume and in pigtails made of
stockings.

And now to bring this tedious explanation to a close, permit me to
hush our orchestra for a final word. I have a most important
announcement. It is the sum and essence of all these pages. This play
of pirates--doctored somewhat with fiercer oaths and lengthened for
older actors--this play and my other play of beggars I dedicate with
my love to _John Abram Flory_, who, as Red Joe, was the most frightful
pirate of them all.

[Illustration]

ON CHOOSING A TITLE

I find difficulty in selecting a name for my pi