The Waterbury Democrat., 1932-01-08
YOUR CHILDREN
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It was the day before the Big Holiday and had gone into town conscience-stricken because I had tried so hard not to be last-min- ute shopper. But I was and 1t couldn't be helped-that one pres- ent had to be bought. It was for a little boy of eight.
 Whether or not I had boys on my mind that day, it was boys l was observing in the street crowd.
 The first one has stayed in my memory; I cannot forget him. l was standing on a corner waiting for a light to change when behind me came the most terrific string of oaths I have ever been unfortunate enough to hear. Then there lurched up beside me a man with boy. The man was drunk. He was dirty and bleary-eyed and furious. He was evidently not mad at the boy, but at the world in general and a newsy in particular who stood grinning after him. But the world was to hear about his griev- ance and it did, me included, and it heard plenty.
 Shame Evident
 Now the boy was about nine or ten, tall, clean, dressed in neat gray suit and fedora. He had light hair and sensitive gray eyes and as he stood there with his father any one could see he was petrified with shame. He was as pale as death and stared hard ahead, but there was a wild confusion there too, that suggested flight.
 The light changed and his father seized him roughly by the shoulder as he stumbled across the track. Come on, you fool" he roared. Don't be so dumb"
 In direct contrast was another father and son not half a block away from this first small drama. I had turned a corner into nar- row side street away from the crowd. It was lined with plumbers shops and electric companies. No crowds here, just myself and a few strays who likewise had taken a short cut. I stopped to look at a trick gadget in a window when I saw the Italian and his boy conn ing along. The boy was about eight he had no hat, just a head full of pale brown curls of that shade and texture that so many Italian children have. And his face was absolutely beautiful. He had his fathers hand. The man was roughly dressed and the boys small overcoat buttoned up under his chin was faded and brown.
 The boy broke away, and ran to a window next to mine where some red lights were blinking. "Oh, look!" he cried excitedly, Come, come" he urged his father. I'm in 0 hurry"
 A Loving Father
 The boy looked for another sec- ond or two, then ran back. He be- gan to describe what he had seen, but what I noticed was this. He put his hand out unconsciously to- ward his parent and the man took 1t in his big rough one with a smile. There were only smiles and trust here, and I had expected something so different.
 The third? That night another father who should know better be- gan to tease his ten-year-old son about title girl friend. And when the little girl herself came from next door with his present the boy flung 1t on the floor. Later he was scolded dreadfully.
 Fathers and fathers and fathers! Some cruel, some brutal, and some kind. Oh dear! wonder who the Italian was. I wonder If that little fellow with the Raphael face and heavenly eyes knows what a treasure of dad he has. But the first boy haunts me at night. Poor little lad.