Milford chronicle., 1927-07-15
FATHER F0RGETS

you, as you lie asleep, one little paw
, crumpled under your cheek and thu
blond curls stickily on your damn
forehead. 1 have stolen into YOU
room, alone. Just few minutes ago
as sat reading my paper in the
library, a hot, stifling wave of re-
morse swept over me- I could moi
resist it. Guilty 1 came to your bed
side.
These were the things I was think
4 ing, son: had been cross to you.
scolded you as you were dressing for
school because you gave your face
merely a dab with towel. 1 took
you to task for not cleaning your
shoes. 1 called angrily when ]
found you had thrown some of your
things on the floor.
At breakfast, I found fault too.
You gulped down your food. You
put your elbows on the table. You
spread butter too thick on your
bread. And as you started off to
play and I made my train, you turn
ed and waved your little hand and
called, Goodbye, daddy" and 1
frowned, and said in reply, Hold
your SuOuluSIS DdCh.
Then it began all over again in
the late afternoon. AS I came up
the hill road, I spied you, down on
your knees playing marbles. There
| were holes in your stockings.
humiliated you before your boy
friends, by making you march ahead
of me back to the house. Stockings
were expensive-andi if you had to
buy them you would be more care
full! Imagine that, son, from faith
eri 1t was such stupid logic.
Do you remember, later, when 1
was reading in the library, how you
came in, softly, timidly, with a sort
of hurt, hunted look in your eyes?
When 1 glanced up, over my paper,
impatient at the interruption, you
hesitated at the door.
what is it you want?" snapped.
You said nothing, but you ran
across, in bne tempestuous plunge,
and threw your arms around my
neck and kissed me, again and again
and your small arms frightened with
affection that God had set blooming
in your heart and which even neglect
could not wither. And then you
were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly after
wards that my paper slipped from
my hand and terrible sickening
fear came over me. Suddenly l saw
myself as I really was, in all my
Mortified selfishness, and 1 felt sick
at heart.
What had habit been doing to me?
The habit of complaining, of finding
fault, of eprimanding-al of these
were my rewards to you for being
a good boy. 1t was not that 1 did
not love you; it was that I expected
so terrible much of youth. 1 was
measuring you by the yardstick of
my own years.
And there was so much that was
good, and fine, and true in your
character. You did not deserve my
treatment of you, son. The little
heart of you was as big as the dawn
itself, over the wide hills. All this
was shown by your spontaneous i'm
pulse to rush in and kiss me good
night. Nothing else matters tonight,
son. I have come to your bedside in
the darkness, and have knelt here,
choking with emotion, and so a.
shamed
1t is a feeble atonement. know
you would not understand these
things if 1 told them to you during
your walking hours. Yet I must |
say what I am saying. 1 must burn
sacr1f1c1al fires, alone here in your |
bedroom, and make free confession. |
And I have prayed God to |
strengthen me in my new resolve. |
Tomorrow 1 will be a real daddy. |
L will chum with you and suffer
and laugh when you laugh. 1 will
bite my tongue when impatient
words come. L will keep saying, as
II 1t were a ritual: HE is nothing
but q boy-a little boy"
AND L am afraid / have VisualiZed
you as man. Yet as see you now,
son. crumpled and weary in your
cot, see that you are still a baby.
yesterday you were in your mothers
arms, your head on her shoulder.
nave asked too much, too much!
Dear boy, dear little son! A
penitent kneels at your infant
shrine, here in the moonlight. I
kiss the little fingers and the damn
and the yellow curls, and,
II 1t were not for waking you 1
would, snatch you up and crush you
to my breast.
Tears came and heartache and re-
morse, and, 1 think, a greater, deep
er love, when you ran through the
library door and wanted to kiss me.
Thatcher News.