"She had found peace of spirit, mother had, Drawing the landscape from the attic there-- Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad, Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair. That rotting sketch-book showed me how and where I, too, could get away; and then I knew That drawing was the work I longed to do. "Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled, And every penny I could get I spent On paints and artist's matters, which I spoiled Up in the attic to my heart's content, Till one day father asked me what I meant; The time had come, he said, to make an end. Now it must finish: what did I intend? "Either I took to farming, like his son, In which case he would teach me, early and late (Provided that my daubing mood was done), Or I must go: it must be settled straight. If I refused to farm, there was the gate. I was to choose, his patience was all gone, The present state of things could not go on. "Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke. The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour, And something told me father's heart was broke, For all he stood so set and looked so sour. Jane took a duster, and began to scour A pewter on the dresser; she was crying. I stood stock still a long time, not replying. "Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round. 'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room, His boots went clop along the stony ground Out to the orchard and the apple-bloom. A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom; I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned. She was dead white but for her eyes that burned. "'You're breaking father's heart, Joe," she began; 'It's not as if----' she checked, in too much pain. 'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man; You're giving him our mother over again. It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain; You know what store he sets on leaving this To (it's too cruel) to a son of his. "'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe, Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you see What folly it is of yours? It's not as though You are a genius, or could ever be. O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me, Give up this craze for painting, and be wise And work with father, where your duty lies.' "'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm; I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind. Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm; Father would see it, if he were not blind. I was not built to farm, as he would find. O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand alone And spoil my father's life or spoil my own.' "'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now. You're only a boy not knowing your own good. Where will you go, suppose you leave here? How Do you propose to earn your daily food? Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless brood Goes to the devil daily, Joe, in cities Only from thinking how divine their wit is.