The garden, too, was well planted, and all along the wire fence, entirely covering it, were wild convolvuluses.
Miss Campbell was permitted to visit the hermit Harry in his charming abode. But not to mention lessons. Harry’s was quite a pleasure-house, and lessons would have been out of keeping altogether in it. But she had to read stories to him.
Yonitch was another invited guest. She did not read stories. But she told the most wonderful fairy tales, and even ghost stories, that ever any one listened to.
One day, when Harry was away fishing, his father happened to look into his quarters and took the liberty of having a peep through his books. They were nearly all books of adventure and travel, and mostly sea stories, with just a sprinkling of poetry.
Harry’s father went away—thinking.
How was this to end? He wished his son, his only son, to remain at home with him, to grow up with him, and help to farm his little estate. But those books? What could the boy’s bent be?
That evening, after supper, he asked Harry straight what he would like to be.
Harry had an old-fashioned way of speaking, as boys have who are brought up by themselves, and only hear their elders talk.
He cocked his head consideringly on one side and replied—
“Oh! a sailor, papa. There can’t be any question about that.”