Are mountains ungrown,
And fountains unflown,
And flowers unblown,
And seed never strown,
And meadows unmown,
And maids all alone,
And lots of things to you unknown,
And every mother's son of us must
Always blow his own—nose, you know."
And while the young men were a little astonished at the run of his lines, the practical and unexpected climax threw them into another laugh.
Soon Henry took a candle, and the two young men retired. They paused a moment in the little parlor.
"Was there ever such a singular and brilliant compound?" said Ranney. "What a power of expression he has! and I see that he generally knows where he is going to hit. If you can hold him till he masters the law, he will be a power before juries."
"I think so too," said Henry; "but he must be a good lawyer before he can be a good advocate,—though that isn't the popular idea."
"Let him work," said Ranney. "He will shed his flightier notions as a young bird moults its down."
How kind to have said this to Bart! Oh, what a mistake, that just praise is injurious! How many weary, fainting, doubting young hearts have famished and died for a kind word of encouragement!
When Bart returned to the sitting-room, his mother and younger brothers had retired.
"I am scorned of women and misunderstood of men—even by my own brother," he said bitterly to himself. "Let me live to change this, and then let me die."
The old melancholy chords vibrated, and he went to his little attic, remembering with anguish the stream of nonsense and folly he had poured forth, and thought of the laughter he had provoked as so much deserved rebuke; and he determined never to utter another word that should provoke a smile. He would feed and sleep, and grow stupid and stolid, heavy and dull, and bring forth emptiness and nothings with solemn effort and dignified sweatings.