“That’s God speaking to you, my boy—telling you you’re not old enough nor wise enough yet to decide such matters for yourself. That’s why boys are given fathers—to decide for them. The proper and commendable conduct for a boy is to be meek and docile and humble, to accept the dictates and judgments of those who are wiser and older. The Bible says, ‘Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth!’—Matthew, fifth chapter, fifth verse. All great men are meek men. They efface themselves. They harken to those more learned and venerable—not ram about the world trying to poke their half-digested opinions at people, especially at seventeen. And in poetry!” “I suppose I should have been meek when Si Plumb made me the laughing-stock of the tannery crowd that day? Let him walk all over me. You said then you were glad I’d showed some starch——” “Young man, we’ll not make this an argument! Standing up for your rights in a fist fight is a far different matter than trying to show you are somebody in print, before you’ve reached your majority. Besides, if you hadn’t been drooling around with poetry that day, you wouldn’t have got yourself into that fight in the first place!” Nathan had difficulty in following his father’s logic excepting that Johnathan had decided he did not care to have his boy a poet,—at least at present. Tears welled in his eyes. He pillowed his head wearily on his arm. “Hang it all, Pa! It seems as if Life’s getting to be nothing but a regular fog. I feel as if I were groping my way around in it—not being able to see much sun—bumping into all sorts of things—not knowing which way to go to get out, or reach any special place. I’m just blundering around and around and around and—oh, what’s the use?” “All the more reason why you should listen to your loving father’s counsel. I’ve been through the mill of experience. I want to save you from going through it, too—making all my hideous, horrible mistakes.” “But you haven’t made a success of your own life, Pa! Then how can you tell me what to do, when you haven’t been able to do it yourself?” “Be careful, young man! No impudence! I’m older than you and therefore must know better.” A long, strained silence followed. Finally came Nathan’s voice. “Father!” “Yes, my son?” “I’m not going to do it!” “You’re not going to do what?” “Stop writing!” Johnathan Forge could scarcely believe his ears. For a quarter moment he sat rigid, hardly seeming to breathe. “What say? What say?” he gasped weakly. “I’m not going to promise to stop writing poetry—nothing of the sort! I’ve got a hunch for it, if I am blundering around in a fog. But somewhere, sometime, I’ll find my way out. I know I’m not the kind of son you wish you’d had. Edith’s not the kind of daughter or mother isn’t the kind of wife, either. But I’m me and I’m going to keep trying. Nobody’s going to stop me—and——” “You saucy young pup! You saucy young pup!” “I’m not saucy! I’m honest. I’m giving you a fair, square answer——”