The Friendly Road [10]
in my pocket, and straightway I pulled it out and after a moment's search found the passage I wanted.
"Listen," I said, "to what this old Roman philosopher said"--and I held the book up to the lamp and read aloud:
"'You can be invincible if you enter into no contest in which it is not in your power to conquer. Take care, then, when you observe a man honoured before others or possessed of great power, or highly esteemed for any reason, not to suppose him happy and be not carried away by the appearance. For if the nature of the good is in our power, neither envy nor jealousy will have a place in us. But you yourself will not wish to be a general or a senator or consul, but a free man, and there is only one way to do this, to care not for the things which are not in our power.'"
"That," said Mr. Stanley, "is exactly what I've always said, but I didn't know it was in any book. I always said I didn't want to be a senator or a legislator, or any other sort of office-holder. It's good enough for me right here on this farm."
At that moment I glanced down into Ben's shining eyes.
"But I want to be a senator or--something--when I grow up," he said eagerly.
At this the older brother, who was sitting not far off, broke into a laugh, and the boy, who for a moment had been drawn out of his reserve, shrank back again and coloured to the hair.
"Well, Ben," said I, putting my hand on his knee, "don't you let anything stop you. I'll back you up; I'll vote for you."
After breakfast the next morning Mr. Stanley drew me aside and said:
"Now I want to pay you for your help yesterday and the day before."
"No," I said. "I've had more than value received. You've taken me in like a friend and brother. I've enjoyed it."
So Mrs. Stanley half filled my knapsack with the finest luncheon I've seen in many a day, and thus, with as pleasant a farewell as if I'd been a near relative, I set off up the country road. I was a little distressed in parting to see nothing of the boy Ben, for I had formed a genuine liking for him, but upon reaching a clump of trees which hid the house from the road I saw him standing in the moist grass of a fence corner.
"I want to say good-bye," he said in the gruff voice of embarrassment.
"Ben," I said, "I missed you, and I'd have hated to go off without seeing you again. Walk a bit with me."
So we walked side by side, talking quietly and when at last I shook his hand I said:
"Ben, don't you ever be afraid of acting up to the very best thoughts you have in your heart."
He said nothing for a moment, and then: "Gee! I'm sorry you're goin' away!"
"Gee!" I responded, "I'm sorry, too!"
With that we both laughed, but when I reached the top of the hill, and looked back, I saw him still standing there bare-footed in the road looking after me. I waved my hand and he waved his: and I saw him no more.
No country, after all, produces any better crop than its inhabitants. And as I travelled onward I liked to think of these brave, temperate, industrious, God-friendly American people. I have no fear of the country while so many of them are still to be found upon the farms and in the towns of this land.
So I tramped onward full of cheerfulness. The rain had ceased, but all the world was moist and very green and still. I walked for more than two hours with the greatest pleasure. About ten o'clock in the morning I stopped near a brook to drink and rest, for I was warm and tired. And it was then that I bethought me of the little tin pipe in my knapsack, and straightway I got it out, and, sitting down at the foot of a tree near the brook, I put it to my lips and felt for the stops with unaccustomed fingers. At first I made the saddest sort of work of it, and was not a little disappointed, indeed, with the sound of the whistle itself. It was nothing to my memory of it! It seemed thin and tinny.
However, I persevered at it, and soon produced a recognizable imitation of Tom Madison's "Old Dan Tucker." My success quite pleased me, and I became so absorbed that I quite lost account of the
"Listen," I said, "to what this old Roman philosopher said"--and I held the book up to the lamp and read aloud:
"'You can be invincible if you enter into no contest in which it is not in your power to conquer. Take care, then, when you observe a man honoured before others or possessed of great power, or highly esteemed for any reason, not to suppose him happy and be not carried away by the appearance. For if the nature of the good is in our power, neither envy nor jealousy will have a place in us. But you yourself will not wish to be a general or a senator or consul, but a free man, and there is only one way to do this, to care not for the things which are not in our power.'"
"That," said Mr. Stanley, "is exactly what I've always said, but I didn't know it was in any book. I always said I didn't want to be a senator or a legislator, or any other sort of office-holder. It's good enough for me right here on this farm."
At that moment I glanced down into Ben's shining eyes.
"But I want to be a senator or--something--when I grow up," he said eagerly.
At this the older brother, who was sitting not far off, broke into a laugh, and the boy, who for a moment had been drawn out of his reserve, shrank back again and coloured to the hair.
"Well, Ben," said I, putting my hand on his knee, "don't you let anything stop you. I'll back you up; I'll vote for you."
After breakfast the next morning Mr. Stanley drew me aside and said:
"Now I want to pay you for your help yesterday and the day before."
"No," I said. "I've had more than value received. You've taken me in like a friend and brother. I've enjoyed it."
So Mrs. Stanley half filled my knapsack with the finest luncheon I've seen in many a day, and thus, with as pleasant a farewell as if I'd been a near relative, I set off up the country road. I was a little distressed in parting to see nothing of the boy Ben, for I had formed a genuine liking for him, but upon reaching a clump of trees which hid the house from the road I saw him standing in the moist grass of a fence corner.
"I want to say good-bye," he said in the gruff voice of embarrassment.
"Ben," I said, "I missed you, and I'd have hated to go off without seeing you again. Walk a bit with me."
So we walked side by side, talking quietly and when at last I shook his hand I said:
"Ben, don't you ever be afraid of acting up to the very best thoughts you have in your heart."
He said nothing for a moment, and then: "Gee! I'm sorry you're goin' away!"
"Gee!" I responded, "I'm sorry, too!"
With that we both laughed, but when I reached the top of the hill, and looked back, I saw him still standing there bare-footed in the road looking after me. I waved my hand and he waved his: and I saw him no more.
No country, after all, produces any better crop than its inhabitants. And as I travelled onward I liked to think of these brave, temperate, industrious, God-friendly American people. I have no fear of the country while so many of them are still to be found upon the farms and in the towns of this land.
So I tramped onward full of cheerfulness. The rain had ceased, but all the world was moist and very green and still. I walked for more than two hours with the greatest pleasure. About ten o'clock in the morning I stopped near a brook to drink and rest, for I was warm and tired. And it was then that I bethought me of the little tin pipe in my knapsack, and straightway I got it out, and, sitting down at the foot of a tree near the brook, I put it to my lips and felt for the stops with unaccustomed fingers. At first I made the saddest sort of work of it, and was not a little disappointed, indeed, with the sound of the whistle itself. It was nothing to my memory of it! It seemed thin and tinny.
However, I persevered at it, and soon produced a recognizable imitation of Tom Madison's "Old Dan Tucker." My success quite pleased me, and I became so absorbed that I quite lost account of the