Free New World in the Morning by Stephen Benatar

impress you?”
    â€œWell could.”
    â€œAll right, then. Listen to this…
    â€˜I strongly wish for what I faintly hope:
    Like the daydreams of melancholy men,
    I think and think on things impossible,
    Yet love to wander in that golden maze…’
    Word perfect, I assure you.”
    â€œYes,” he said, slowly. “I can believe it. I’m not actually familiar with that passage—”
    â€œ Rival Ladies ,” I told him. “But my point is: not all of us are total dunderheads.”
    â€œAfter nearly twenty years, Sam, do you imagine I don’t know that? And, after nearly twenty years, can’t you imagine I might ever so slightly be pulling your leg?”
    But my education had always been a touchy subject. I’d never been to university, had nothing in the way of what I considered a genuine qualification: some tangible proof in writing. One of these days I hoped to set this right. Go up to Oxbridge preferably—get to be a rowing blue.
    Well, anyway. You gotta have a dream.
    â€œHow much more of it can you recite?” He laughed. “Old Memorybags!”
    â€œOf the Dryden? None. But you asked for only four lines. What about two from Alexander Pope? Also impressive?”
    â€œPossibly.”
    â€œâ€˜Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; the proper study of mankind is man.’”
    â€œOh, anyone can recite that! With the exception, I mean, of anyone in this garden.”
    â€œAnd lastly I can offer you the whole of The Whiffenpoof Song . But, sadly, not its etymology.”
    I sighed. Stood up and went to pass a plate of macaroons. Also one of flapjacks.
    As it happened, a few hours later I did in fact give voice to those little black sheep who had lost their way—baa, baa, baa! (And wouldn’t get home till the Judgment Day—baa, baa, baa!) But not as a solo. We’d built a bonfire and after a light supper we ate buns and drank hot chocolate around it; some of the children would later place foil-wrapped potatoes in the embers. Ted told a ghost story; not a very scary one, although most of the adults simulated terror. Then we had a spelling bee and played ‘I Spy’. Everyone seemed smiley and relaxed…increasingly so as the night grew darker. Cosy, too—we all had woollen jumpers. Beside me lay Susie, well-fed and content and interested: eyes constantly on the move, snout resting on her paws. (How could all those other households honestly prefer cats?) Young Gary sat with thumb in mouth and head against his mother’s breast, and Rose absently stroked the hair back from his brow. I wondered if Jake ever suffered from claustrophobia. He or any of the others. Impossible to tell. I seldom did while I was actually there. I smiled at Junie and my daughter, both sitting straight across from me. People said there was no such thing as a perfect day, and of course there probably wasn’t—I supposed—yet I really didn’t see how this one could have been improved on. Our initially lusty singsong was now petering out but as I looked at all those friendly faces in the firelight, faces so familiar I usually didn’t think much about my fondness for the people attached to them, I suddenly felt regretful that next Sunday mine wouldn’t be among them. Although I knew this was merely sentimental and would certainly be fleeting it wasn’t easy to shake off. What’s more, it happened even before somebody, I believe it was Octavia, led the rest into something I hadn’t heard for ages: “Here’s a happy tune, you’ll love to croon, they call it…Sam’s song.” Lots of nods and smiles in my direction and cries from some of the children—“This one’s about Uncle Sam! This is about Uncle Sam!”
    What was ironic was that it was immediately followed by another that could easily have provoked a few nods in my direction…although, obviously, not with the