The Western news. [volume] (Libby, Mont.) 1933-current, 1940-05-09
Fother orgets
BY w. Livingston Larned


Listen, son. | am saying this as
you lie asleep, one little paw crum-
pied under your cheek and the
blond curls stickily wet on your
damp forehead. | have stolen into
your room alone. Just few min
utes ago, as | sat reading my paper
in the library, Sitting wave of
remorse swept over me. Guilty. |
came to your bedside.
These are the things | was think
| ing, son. | had been cross to you.
| scolded you as you were dressing
for school because you gave your
face merely dab with a towel. /
| took you to task for not cleaning
your shoes. | called out angrily
when you threw some of your things
on the floor.
| At breakfast | found fault, too.
You spilled things. You gulped
down your food You put your ell
bows on the table. You spread but
ter too thick on your bread. And
as you started off to play and
made for my train. you turned and
waved hand and called, Good
bye, Daddy!' and | frowned, and
said in reply, Hold your shoulders
| backio
Then it began all over again in
the late afternoon. As came up the
road spied you, down on your
knees, playing marbles. There were
| holes in your stockings. | humili-
ated you before your boy friends by
marching you ahead of me to the
| house Stockings were expensive
and # you had to buy them you
would be more careful! Imagine
that, Son, from father
Do you remember, later, when
was reading in the library, how you
came in, timidly, with sort OF
hurt look in your eyes? When /
glanced up over my paper, impa-
tent at the interruption, you hest
tated at the door. What is it you
want?" ! snapped
| You said nothing, but ran across
in one tempestuous plunge and
| threw your arms around my neck
and kissed me, and your small arms
frightened with an affection that
God had set blooming in your heart
and which even neglect could not
wither. And then you were gone
ipattering UP the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly after
wards that my paper slipped from
my hands and terrible sickening
fear came oyer me. What has habit
been doing to me? The habit of
finding fault, of reprimanding-this
boy. 1t was not that | did not love
you, it was that I expected too
much Of youth. 1t was measuring
you by the yardstick of my own
years.
And there was SO much that was
good and fine and true irlza your
character. The little heart Of you
was as big as the dawn itself over
the wide hills. This was shown by
your spontaneous impulse to rush
in and kiss me goodnight. Nothing
else matters tonight, son. | have
come to your bedside in the dark
ness, and have knelt there,
ASHAMED!
| 1t is feeble atonement; / know
you would not understand these
things if told them to you during
your waking hours. But tomorrow
will be real daddy! l will chum
with you, and suffer when you suf-
fer, and laugh when you laugh. ]
will bite my tongue when impa-
tent words come. / will keep say
ing as If it were a ritual: HE is
nothing but boy--a little boy!"
/ am afraid / have visualized you
as a man. Yet as I see you now
son, crumpled and weary in YOU
cot, see that you are still a baby
Yesterday you were in your moth,
er's arms, your head on her shoul
der ! have asked too much, tot
much.