The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1917-03-26

Inc nand on his forehead ceased Its
gentle movement, fell to it's owners
lap. A sigh passed his mothers set
lips.
Eyes, my son, Meriwether," said she.
This is the last journey! I have lost
you, then, it seems? You do not wish
to be my boy any longer? You are a
man altogether, then?'
Il am Meriwether Lewis, mother"
said he gravely, and no more.
"Yes!" She spoke absently, musing'
ly. Eyes, you always were.'
81 went westward, clear across the
Ragged mountains" said the youth.
"These'-and he pointed with con.
tempt to the small trophies at his belt
twill do for the darkies at the sta.
bles. I put yon old ringtail up a tree
last night, on my way home, and
thought it was as well to wait till
dawn till I could see the rifle sights,
and afterward-the woods were beau
tiful today. AS to trails, even if there
is no trail 1 know the way back home
you know that, mother"
II know that, my son, yes. You were
born for the forest. I fear I shall not
hold you long on this quiet farm"
Call in time, mother / am to stay
here with you until I am fitted to ga
higher. You know what Mr.. Jefferson
has said to me. am for Washington
mother, one of these days, for hold il
sure that Mr.. Jefferson will go there In
some still higher place. He was my
fathers friend and is ours STILL"
cit may be that you will go to Wash
ington, my son." said the mother. 81
do not know. But will you stay there
The forest will call to you all your life
AL your life! Do 1 not know you
then? Can not see your life-all your
life-as plainly as if it were written
Do I not knOw-your mother? Why
should your mother not known"
He looked around at her rather
gravely once again, unsmilingly, for hi
rarely smiled.
"How do you know, mother? What
do you know? Tell me-about myself
Then 1 will tell you also. We will see
AoW we dSACC dS " Whot dA tAe
what ought to do"
"My son, it is no question Of what
you ought to do, for that blends toe
closely in fate with what you surely
will do-must do-because it 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. ''The wilderness is your
home. You will go 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. II
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 a child
but always a man. When you were q
baby you did not smile; when you were
boy you always had your way. My
boy, a long time ago ceased to oppose
that will of yours. I knew that 1t was
useless. But, ah, how I have loved
that will when 1 felt it was behind
your promise! l knew you would do
what you had set for yourself to do l
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:
"1ou were always old, always grown
up, always resolved, always your own
master, always Meriwether Lewis.
When you were born you were not a
child. Whensth 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 Il sound. You recog-
nized sight and sound together as no
child usually does for months. You
~ oSAO&Ai oiy LILY Wy 81 StAohS 81
yes-but you never were
a boy at all. When you should have
been baby you did not weep and you
did not srni!e. 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 we'll well enough, for later
we were left alone. But your father
was in you. Do not know we'll enough
where you got that settled melancholy
OF yours, that despoDdeucy,j that SOM
Der grief-call 1t what you lil1e-that
marked him all his life and even in his
death? That came from him, your IA
Their. I thank God l did not give you
that, knowing what life must hold for
you in suffering. He suffered, yes. bu
not as you viii. And you rnUst--yol
must, my son. Beyond all other me
you will suffer-
"YOu were better named Cassandra
mother" Yet the young man scare
smiled even now.
eyes, am prophecies, oil too SCOTT
prophecies, my sou. / see ahead as
only mother can see, perhaps as only