And thus the glow of the Long Ago
Keeps my path to you, dear, bright;
Yet a little while and Our Morning dawns
So good night, dear heart, good night!”
“Don’t you see,” argued Nathan, “you’ve said the very same thing, only this is smooth and dreamy. You have a feeling old Mr. Abbot, the music teacher, might play it on his ‘cello, maybe. That’s the meaning of real poetry, Mr. Gridley—at least as I see it—to say the common thing uncommon, sweet and soft and low, so it lurks in your mind like music.”
“I guess I understand, bub,” replied the old man huskily. “That’s a dam’ good piece we’ve writ here. If Sam Hod, o’ the Daily Telegraph, can’t make space for it, I’ll call his notes. Bub, what the plunkin’-hell does your old man be thinkin’ of, settin’ you to skinning cows? Want to make you at my age what I am, maybe?”
Nathan was silent for a moment. Then he answered sadly:
“It’s the money I can earn. He needs it.”
“Money? Money? Dam’ money! Once I might o’ writ pieces like this, bub—dam’ good pieces. But my dad put his foot down and said that I should make money too. An’ look at me! I ain’t worth nothin’ else. And all this town knows it.” The tanner’s voice broke and he began to chew furiously. He turned away.
“I can’t help myself,” lamented Nathan. “He makes me work and so I must. I’m only waiting to grow. And then I’ll go away, I guess, where he can never get trace of me again.”