A Boy


By Reverend Leo Fahey


       After a male baby has grown out of long clothes and triangles and has acquired long pants, freckles, and so much dirt that relatives do not dare kiss it between meals, it becomes a BOY.  A boy is nature’s answer to that false belief that there is no such thing as perpetual motion.  A boy can swim like a fish, run like a deer, climb like a squirrel, balk like a mule, bellow like a bull, eat like a pig, or act like a jackass, according to climactic conditions.


        He is a piece of skin over an appetite.  A noise covered with smudges.  He is called a tornado because he comes in at the most unexpected times, hits the most unexpected times, hits the most unexpected places, and leaves everything a wreck behind him.  He is a growing animal of superlative promise, to be fed, watered and kept warm, a joy forever, a periodic nuisance, the problem of our times, the hope of a nation.  Every boy born is evidence that God is not yet discouraged of man.


        Were it not for boys, the newspapers would go unread and a thousand picture shows would go bankrupt.  Boys are useful in running errands.  A boy can easily do the family errands with the help of five or six adults.  The zest with which a boy does an errand is equaled only by the speed of a turtle on a July day.  The boy is a natural spectator.  He watches parades, fires, fights, ball games, automobiles, boats and airplanes with equal fervor, but he will not watch the clock.  The man who will invent a clock that will stand on its head when it strikes will win the undying gratitude of millions of families whose boys are forever coming to dinner about suppertime.


        Boys faithfully imitate their dads in spite of all efforts to teach them good manners.  A boy, if not washed too often and kept in a cool place after each accident, will survive broken bones, hornets, swimming holes, fights and nine helpings of pie.