Manchester Democrat. [volume] (Manchester, Iowa) 1875-1930, 1917-03-14

do you know Tell me-aBout myself!
Then will tell you also. We will see
how we agree as to what am and
what ought to do"
"My son. 1t is no question of what
you ought to do, for that blends too
closely in fate with what you surely
will do-must do-because 1t was writ
ten for you. Yonder forest will always
call to you" She turned now toward
the sun, sinking across the red leaved
forest lands. 1.-The wilderness is your
home You will so out into it and re-
turn. often. and then at last you will
go and not come back again-nOt to
me-not to any one will you come
back"
The youth did not move as she sat-
her hands on his head. Her voice went
on, even and steady:
you are old, Meriwether Lewis. 1t
Is time now. You are man. You al
ways were man. You were born old.
You never have been boy and never
can be one. You never were child,
but always man. When you were
baby you did not smile; when you were
boy you always had your way. My
boy, long time ago ceased to oppose
that will of yours. l knew that it was
useless. But, ah, how l have loved
that will when felt it was behind
your promise! I knew you would do
what you had set for yourself to do.
knew you would come back with deeds
in your hands, my boy, gained through
that will which never would bend
for me or for any one else in the
world"
He remained motionless, apparently
unaffected, as his mother went on:
"You were always old, always grown
up, always resolved, always your own
master, always Meriwether Lewis.
When you were born you were not a
child. When the old nurse brought you
to mel can see her black face grin
ming now-she carried you held by the
feet instead Of lying on her arm. You
stood, you were so strong. Your hair
was dark and full even then. You
were old. In two weeks you turned
where you heard sound. You recog-
nized sight and sound together as no
child usually does for months. You
were beautiful, my boy; SO strong, so
straight-ah, yes-but you never were
boy at all When you should have
been baby you did not weep and you
did not smile. l never knew you to do
so. From the first you always were a
man."
She paused, but still he did not speak.
'That was well well enough, for later
we were left alone. But your father
was in you. Do not know well enough
where you got that settled melancholy
Of yours, that dependency, that SOM
Der grief-call it what you like-that
marked him all his life and even in his
death? That came from him, your ia
Their. l thank God I did not give you
that, knowing what life must hold for
you in suffering. He suffered, yes, but
not as you will. And you must-you
must. my son. Beyond all other men
you will suffer-
"You were better named Cassandra,
mother" Yet the young man scarce
smiled even now.
Eyes, am a prophecies, all too sooth
a prophecies, my son. see ahead as
only mother can see, perhaps as only
one of the old highland blood can see.
am soothseer and soothsayer, because
you are blood of my blood, bone of my
bone, and cannot help but know.
cannot help but know what that melan-
choly and that resolution, all these COM
bined, must spell for you. You know
how his heart was racked at times?"
The boy nodded now.
'Then know how your own must be
racked in turn" said she. ,"My son, it
is no ordinary fate that will be yours.
You will go forward at all costs; you
will keep your word bright as the knife
in your belt; you will drive yourself.
What that means to You in agony
what that means when your will is set
against the unalterable and the inevi-
table, wish-oh, I wish could not
see it! But do see it now, all laid
out before me-all, all! Oh, Merne-
may l not call you Merne once more
before let you go?"
She let her hands fall from his head
10 his shoulders as she gazed steadily
but beyond him, as if looking into his
future, but she herself sat. her strong
face composed. She might, indeed,