The above is J.R.R Tolkien's illustration of Smaug.
My grandfather on my father's side read me Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island when I was about DS, 10's age and into pirates, unicorns, buried treasure, and books about communicating telepathically with dragons.
I sat in the yard for hours with a paper Kroger's bag with a carrot in it, waiting to catch a rabbit from Watership Down.
In other words, I was a bucktooth nerd. I clutched to my chest a Trapper Keeper notebook with a stamping snorting stallion on the front. And even now, I'm always looking for the dragon's hoard, though the bar is set perimenopausally low.
Where once I set out with my friend Brigitta (her mother was Swiss) into Panther Hollow in Pittsburgh to find the source of the Nile, I am now content to find a bunch of wildflowers on my circumnavigation of the school's campus with the dog.
Swamp marigold! Whoo-weeee! That's a day-maker! Ain't I a treasure finder! And look yonder: there is a the hawk I've been following! Golly!
I look around to see if the cross-country track team has heard me whoop and seen me do my little jig and then think so what if they have. I'm modeling something important for them though they are too young vibrant glossy haired coltish and healthy to understand: in 20-30 years they'll be in my clogs.