Dawn by Eleanor Porter (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

do one miteof good. You might jest as well out with it first as last. Now, whatis it you want?"

Keith drew a long sigh.

"Well, Susan, there IS something—a little something—only I meantwhat I said about the johnny-cake and the rhymes; truly, I did."

"Well?" Susan was smiling faintly.

"Susan, you know you can make dad do anything."

Susan began to stiffen, and Keith hastened to disarm her.

"No, no, truly! This is the part I want. You CAN make dad do anything;and I want you to do it for me."

"Do what?"

"Make him let me off from school any more."

"Let you off from school!" In her stupefied amazement Susan actuallyforgot to pick up another plate from the dishpan.

"Yes. Tell him I'm sick, or 't isn't good for me. And truly, 't isn'tgood for me. And truly, I am quite a little sick, Susan. I don't feelwell a bit. There's a kind of sinking feeling in my stomach, and—-"

But Susan had found her wits and her tongue by this time, and she gavefree rein to her wrath.

"Let you off from school, indeed! Why, Keith Burton, I'm ashamed ofyou—an' you that I've always boasted of! What do you want to do—growup a perfect ignominious?"

Keith drew back resentfully, and uptilted his chin.

"No, Susan Betts, I'm not wanting to be a—a ignominious, and I don'tintend to be one, either. I'm going to be an artist—a great bigfamous artist, and I don't NEED school for that. How aremultiplication tables and history and grammar going to help me paintbig pictures? That's what I want to know. But I'm afraid that dad—Say, WON'T you tell dad that I don't NEED books any more, and—-"Buthe stopped short, so extraordinary was the expression that had come toSusan Betts's face. If it were possible to think of Susan Betts ascrying, he should think she was going to cry now.

"Need books? Why, child, there ain't nobody but what needs books. An'I guess I know! What do you suppose I wouldn't give now if I could 'a'had books an' book-learnin' when I was young? I could 'a' writ realpoetry then that would sell. I could 'a' spoke out an' said thingsthat are in my soul, an' that I CAN'T say now, 'cause I don't know thewords that—that will impress what I mean. Now, look a-here, KeithBurton, you're young. You've got a chance. Do you see to it that youmake good. An' it's books that will help you do it."

"But books won't help me paint, Susan."

"They will, too. Books will help you do anything."

"Then you won't ask dad?"

"Indeed, I won't."

"But I don't see how books—-" With a long sigh Keith turned away.

In the studio the next morning he faced his father.

"Dad, you can't learn to paint pictures by just READING how to do it,can you?"

"You certainly cannot, my boy."

"There! I told Susan Betts so, but she wouldn't LISTEN to me. And so—

I don't have to go to school any more, do I?"

"Don't have to go to school any more! Why, Keith, what an absurd idea!

Of course you've got to go to school!"

"But just to be an artist and paint pictures, I don't see—-"

But his father cut him short and would not listen.

Five minutes later a very disappointed, disheartened young lad leftthe studio and walked slowly down the hall.

There was no way out of it. If one were successfully to be Jerry andNed and dad and one's self, all in one, there was nothing but schooland more school, and, yes, college, that would give one the propertraining. Dad had said it.

Keith went to school the next morning. With an oh-well-I-don't-careair he slung his books over his shoulder and swung out the gate,whistling blithely.

It might not be so bad, after all, he was telling himself. Perhaps theprint would be plainer now. Anyway, he could learn a lot in classlistening to the others; and maybe some of the boys would study withhim, and do the reading part.

But it was not to be so easy as Keith hoped for. To begin with, theprint had not grown any clearer. It was more blurred than ever. To besure, it was much worse with one eye than with the other; but he couldnot keep one eye shut all the time. Besides—his eyes ached now if hetried to use them much, and grew red and inflamed, and he was afraidhis father would notice them. He began to see strange flashes ofrainbow light now, too. And sometimes little haloes around the lampflame. As if one could study books with all that!

True, he learned something in class—but naturally he was never calledupon to recite what had already been given, so he invariably failedmiserably when it came to his turn. Even the "boy to study with"proved to be a delusion and a snare, for no boy was found who cared todo "all the reading," without being told the reason why it wasexpected of him—and that was exactly what Keith was straining everynerve to keep to himself.

And so week in and week out Keith stumbled along through those misery-filled days, each one seemingly a little more unbearable than thelast. Of course, it could not continue indefinitely, and Keith, in hisheart, knew it. Almost every lesson was more or less of a failure, andrecitation hour was a torture and a torment. The teacher alternatelyreproved and reproached him, with frequent appeals to his pride,holding up for comparison his splendid standing of the past. Hisclassmates gibed and jeered mercilessly. And Keith stood it all. Onlya tightening of his lips and a new misery in his eyes showed that hehad heard and understood. He made neither apology nor explanation.Above all, by neither word nor sign did he betray that, because theprint in his books was blurred, he could not study.

Then came the day when his report card was sent to his father, and hehimself was summoned to the studio to answer for it.

"Well, my son, what is the meaning of that?"

Keith had never seen his father look so stern. He was holding up thecard, face outward. Keith knew that the