When You Were a Boy

by Edwin L. Sabin

“It certainly is!” would exclaim mother.

And she would call Maggie, and all would discuss the strange tidings. Soon the village would be ringing with your exploits.

The household would send messages to you, of course, pleading for one sign of forgiveness; for a visit, a token. But you would return with scorn their missives, and ignore their entreaties.

Or would it not be well to heap coals of fire upon their heads? ’Twas a difficult matter to decide.

At any rate, you would run away. That very afternoon should witness you steadfastly plodding onward, face to the west, fortune and revenge before, ungrateful, cruel home behind. When tea was ready Maggie, and then mother, would summon you in vain.

Mother would say to father:

“Why, I can’t find Johnny!”

“Oh, he’ll come,” would assert father.

But you wouldn’t. They would eat supper without you; they would be alarmed; they would inquire among the neighbors; they would search up-stairs and down; nothing would give them a hint—or would it be a more subtle rôle to leave a note, a tear-stained note, with simply “Good-by” writ within? That was another point to be considered.

However, the truth would dawn upon them. At first they would refuse to believe it. They would think: