Y 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00022226798 
 
 Jieurti ufctl 
 
 
 /J\T/ 
 
THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 From the Library of 
 GERTRUDE WEIL 
 
 1879-1971 
 

 
BILLY-BOY 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/billyboystudyinrQOIong 
 
BILLY- BOY 
 
 A Study in Responsibilities 
 
 6y John Luther Long 
 
 vluthor of 'Madame Butterfly^ 
 "The Darling of The Gods>£c. 
 
 Wit/P illus tra tions 6y 
 
 Jessie Wixecox Smith antf 
 
 Decorations £yRoBERTM. e Quww 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD . MEAD 6* COMPANY 
 
Copyright, J905, 
 By P. F. COLLIER & SON 
 
 Copyright, 1906, 
 By JOHN LUTHER LONG 
 
 $ 
 
 Published September, 1906 
 
FOR UNWISE FATHERS 
 
 AS IF FROM THEIR (SOMETIMES) 
 
 WISE SONS 
 
MR. LONG TAKES PLEASURE 
 IN ACKNOWLEDGING THE 
 COURTESY OF "COLLIER'S 
 WEEKLY," BY WHOSE PER- 
 MISSION THE TEXT AND 
 THE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 WHICH MAKE UP THIS 
 BOOK ARE HERE USED 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. Once there was a Happy Little 
 
 Boy \ 
 
 II. Who did n't want Flowers . . 7 
 
 III. Who made me say Good-Night 
 
 through the Crack of the Door 15 
 
 IV. Who made me ashamed of Kill- 
 
 ing. 23 
 
 V. Who became my Judge ... 37 
 
 VI. Who twisted the Knife ... 45 
 
 VII. Who took me Home with him 65 
 
 VIII. And took the Chair from behind 
 
 the Door *•*«»**• 7i 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Page 
 
 I found that Billy had put a chair 
 
 under the lock M 
 
 He put it into my hand . ♦ . so tenderly 
 . . . that for the first time I began, 
 perhaps, to understand » ♦ . . 27 
 
 It was ** arms all 'round * 49 
 
 - ■■ 
 
Billy-Boy 
 
 ONCE THERE WAS A HAPPY 
 LITTLE BOY — 
 
 ONCE there was a happy little 
 boy with whom I went away 
 to spend a summer by the 
 sea. I took my new automatic gun, 
 the mechanism of which was very 
 fascinating to him, but the purpose of 
 which he did not understand. By a 
 singular oversight, I neglected to ex- 
 plain that it was a machine for killing 
 
 birds. He took nothing but a butterfly 
 j 
 
 / 
 
net. We made the most tremendous 
 plans for sport. 
 
 He told me valiantly that not a 
 butterfly in the whole world should 
 escape his net. I told him as bravely 
 that not a bird on earth should escape 
 my gun. He looked puzzled at this, 
 I think, but he was so full of the joy 
 of the sea air and the rushing train 
 that it passed. 
 
 We could not wait to get out. How- 
 ever, on the first day the wind was 
 from the east, with a high tide, so 
 that there were no birds on the beach. 
 But we found for him a splendid 
 pitcher-plant, and he was charmed 
 with it until I told him, ineptly, that 
 
 it was carnivorous, and explained 
 2 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
that its cunning pitcher-leaves were 
 traps to catch unwary bugs and 
 drown them, and then, when they 
 had decayed, to absorb them for 
 food. 
 
 The little boy was shocked, and I 
 laughed at this and hugged him. " It 
 looks bloody — beastly," he said. ** I 
 don't want it!" I agreed with him, 
 laughing again, that it had a monster 
 look and threw it aside. 
 
 The next day was a good one for 
 birds. I got a bag full. But the little 
 boy was nervous and excited during 
 all the hunt, took nothing with his 
 net, and on the way home complained 
 of headache. He would not let me 
 touch him and rejected all my offers 
 
 3 
 
to get him flowers. He would have 
 no butterflies caught* 
 
 When we reached home he was 
 more ill and went at once to bed* I left 
 him with the promise that the next 
 morning we would hunt together* and 
 that more attention should be paid to 
 his net. I apologized for having been 
 too busy that day with the birds. I 
 fancied that this was the cause of his 
 strange humor — my neglect of him — 
 and why he repelled my caresses. 
 
 But the next day he was still lan- 
 guid and preferred not to go. I left 
 him at home and returned to hear 
 him singing — until I arrived with my 
 bag. once more full, when his song 
 ceased. 
 
 4 
 
I told him cheerily that he must 
 be well on the morrow, for all that 
 day his wishes should rule and we 
 would return with as many flowers 
 and butterflies as birds. But he did 
 not rise to my cheer, and again I 
 noticed that, when I touched him, he 
 drew away. 
 
 And then Billy-Boy was distinctly 
 ill the following day, and so for several 
 days, while what I thought his strange 
 aversion to being caressed remained. 
 Yet, again, he was well enough to 
 go reluctantly with me, though he 
 again returned with his headache and 
 the " strangeness " — as we had agreed 
 to call it. 
 
 And so it went on, Billy going only 
 
 5 
 
when I urged — commanded, indeed — 
 and less and less often even then, until 
 the little boy remained in bed for days 
 together, and the unwise doctor came 
 — the doctor who sees and understands 
 only the body and thinks only of his 
 drugs. 
 
 
WHO DIDN'T WANT 
 FLOWERS — 
 
 IFANQED a case of heat exhaus- 
 tion; but the doctor insisted that 
 there was not a symptom of it* 
 Of course, the physician asked Billy 
 where it hurt him, and, of course, the 
 brave little boy answered, "Nowhere." 
 And, of course, with equal fatuity I 
 insisted that it must hurt him some- 
 where and that he must tell the doctor. 
 I remember how Billy-Boy opened his 
 sick eyes and looked at me. I did not 
 understand it then, but I do now. He 
 was asking me in that look how it 
 
 7 
 
was possible that / did not understand 
 where it hurt him. 
 
 I wish there were doctors who could 
 see a little further than the tongue and 
 the pulse ! But then why should they 
 when a father does not ? 
 
 He spoke of slothful circulation — 
 listless something — and advised fresh 
 air. I was to let him rest a day or 
 two more; then, perhaps, he would 
 Ifoish to go out. If not, I was to 
 induce him — tempt him — to go: it 
 was the sunshine he needed. So said 
 the wise doctor. 
 
 All this I did, but he still shrank 
 from going out with me. Then I 
 pressed the temptation. 
 
 ** Yesterday," I said, " I saw a patch 
 
 8 
 
of wild white violets as big as this 
 bed!" 
 
 For a moment I succeeded. All 
 Billy's boyish joy leaped into his small 
 face. He sat up in bed and cried: 
 "Oh! Where?" 
 
 But his hands had fallen upon me 
 at that moment and he relaxed; the 
 joy fled from his face and he lay inertly 
 down again. 
 
 "If you won't go for them I will 
 bring them to you," I persisted, know- 
 ing how this would further tempt him. 
 "Bushels of them!" 
 
 " No ! " he cried suddenly. Then, 
 with a little remorse: "I don't want 
 any flowers, papa." 
 
 "What!" I cried in real amaze- 
 
 9 
 
ment. "Billy-Boy, the lover of the 
 flowers! The beloved of them!" 
 
 "They might be alive," he an- 
 swered* "I have been thinking. 
 And if you were alive, and some one 
 stronger than you was to press the 
 life out of you with flatirons, how 
 would you like it?" 
 
 I exploded with laughter — happy 
 to discover, as I fancied, that Billy's 
 illness was not of the body but of 
 the strange, beautiful little mind, and 
 could be easily cured. 
 
 " Billy-Boy," I said, " boys are just 
 like men. If they are allowed to mope 
 in bed and in the darkness when there 
 is sunshine without, they fancy and 
 even see strange things — things which 
 
 JO 
 
out in the fair daylight, where the dear 
 birds sing, and the lovely flowers 
 bloom, they will know to be not only 
 untrue but very foolish/' 
 
 And all Billy answered was : " Did 
 you say the dear birds, papa ? " 
 
 "Why, yes. Nothing on earth is 
 so exquisitely made and adjusted as 
 the mechanism of a bird/' 
 
 " I don't see how you can say that ! 
 — talk so nice ! " sighed Billy, willing 
 to drop the whole matter. 
 
 Now, at that moment, the conscious- 
 ness that Billy did not quite like me 
 any more, which had kept me often 
 awake, came very poignantly* Of 
 course, you didn't know Billy, and 
 you can't fancy how serious a matter 
 
it was to be not liked by him and to 
 be confronted by the possibility of his 
 actual dislike. 
 
 " Flowers are not alive, Billy-Boy " 
 I said with, I fear, a bit of a tremor in 
 my voice. "And God meant them 
 for just what we use them — to take 
 joy in their beauty and perfection 
 and perfume. And so it is with 
 all the inferior things and creatures 
 on this earth. They are for our 
 
 use." 
 
 " Who says so ? " asked Billy. 
 
 I had to evade this innocent question. 
 
 "This morning," I faltered on, "I 
 bagged twenty ring-necks and lost four, 
 because Billy-Boy was not there to rush 
 into the raging surf and get them. 
 
 J2 
 
And, to show you just what I mean 
 by the 'use' of the inferior creatures 
 for our good, to-night we will have 
 them for dinner, and Billy shall have 
 as many as though he had helped to 
 kill them." 
 
 "No!" he cried again in sudden 
 terror. Then, as if he regretted it: 
 " Papa, I don't like to eat birdies. 
 Mebby you are right, papa dear, 
 about — thi — things, but you won't be 
 angry if I don't eat" — he choked in 
 his throat — " birdies ? " 
 
 "Why, no, Boy," I cried. "You 
 are all the boy we possess, and you 
 are to have and not to have every- 
 thing you like or don't like, as long as 
 you live ! " 
 
 J3 
 
This generosity was tragic for the 
 little boy. He said: "Papa dear, to- 
 morrow I tbill go with you. But that 
 pitcher-plant iPoas beastly ! " 
 
 44 Yes," I laughed, " that was/' 
 
 ^. 
 
 u 
 
WHO MADE ME SAY GOOD-NIGHT 
 THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE 
 DOOR — 
 
 SO the next day we went. He 
 took a portfolio for flowers, but 
 no net; I took my gun. And 
 we started very happily. As the un- 
 wise doctor had said, the sun did get 
 into the soul of the little boy and our 
 chatter happened to be of safe and 
 joyous things. But we had not been 
 long together when I knew once more 
 that Billy-Boy was aloof — that he 
 feared something. I think it came 
 forth sharply at the first kill — though 
 
 J5 
 
I did not know it then. Billy cried 
 out and ran away and sat on the hills 
 far off with his face turned from me. 
 When, later, I went to him, he was 
 lying face down, hiding eyes and ears, 
 and his portfolio had fallen neglectedly 
 at his feet* He had no flowers. 
 
 I had come softly, and when I 
 touched him he cried out suddenly in 
 terror of me also. He made no expla- 
 nation of this and begged to go home. 
 I said that we would start in a little 
 while — that I had seen a bunch of 
 birds too easy to go away from. He 
 answered brusquely that he was going 
 home, and ran rapidly away without 
 me or a look or good-by for me — a 
 strange thing for gentle Billy to do. 
 
*T3 
 
 c 
 
 3 
 
 J 
 
 *0 
 
 c3 
 
 c 
 
 3 
 
When I got home Billy was very 
 ill. "Papa," he called through the 
 door, "don't come in, please* Say 
 good-night through the crack. I am 
 very, very sleepy and don't want to 
 be 'sturbed." 
 
 "But, Boy dear," I said, "I must 
 kiss you good-night. That has hap- 
 pened every night since you were 
 born; and I should be very unhappy if 
 it did not happen to-night. Would n't 
 you be unhappy ? " 
 
 "No," said Billy. 
 
 When, after a moment, I had re- 
 covered from the shock of this, I 
 pleaded : 
 
 " But you are not asleep, Boy ! " 
 
 I tried to enter, and I found that 
 
 19 
 
Billy had put a chair under the 
 lock which absolutely prevented 
 me. 
 
 "Don't!" he almost shrieked as I 
 persisted. I went silently away. 
 
 If you have never had a Billy-Boy 
 you will never understand how this 
 hurt. Nothing in all my life, I think, 
 had hurt so much. I could not have 
 spoken to Billy again, just then, with- 
 out betrayal. But presently I came 
 back. Billy must not know that he 
 had hurt me. For that would hurt 
 Billy more. 
 
 " How is it now ? " I asked. 
 
 44 The same, papa," said Billy. 
 
 "I am not to come in?" 
 
 44 No, papa dear." 
 
 20 
 
"All right, Boy/' I said. "Good- 
 night — sleep tight/' 
 
 "Papa," came a little sad voice 
 through the door, "Billy's sorry." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "of course!" 
 
 " That he runned away from you." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I was 'ick, papa ! " 
 
 "Of course. Billy wouldn't run 
 away from his papa unless he was 
 sick." 
 
 "Honist!" 
 
 " I know. Honest ! " 
 
 " Night-night, papa ! " 
 
 "Night-night, Boy!" 
 
 I waited a long time. Billy might 
 relent. This was worth waiting for. 
 But there was nothing more. Do you 
 
 21 
 
observe that with it all — the illness, 
 the sleepiness — Billy simply did not 
 want me in his room? 
 
 I stole like a thief from the little boy's 
 door. And all that night I waked and 
 wondered what it was* You would 
 have waked and wondered too. One 
 does not lightly lose a Billy's love. 
 Twice I crept back. The first time 
 Billy-Boy was crying softly. Was it 
 for me? The second time he was 
 safely asleep. 
 
 It was late when he woke, much 
 more ill, and by that time the doctor 
 was once more there with his pre- 
 scription of air and sunshine. 
 
 Why is there no thermometer to 
 test the temperature of a child's soul ? 
 
 22 
 
WHO MADE ME ASHAMED OF 
 KILLING— 
 
 "ORE wise talk on my part 
 and more desperate penitence 
 on Billy's part, when he grew 
 better, and we again went out together. 
 But it was now so plainly a matter 
 of duty for Billy that we both recog- 
 nized the folly of concealing it. He 
 frankly sulked. And I confess that 
 for the first time in Billy's short life, I 
 was impatient with him. He knew 
 this more and more as the day pro- 
 gressed and was piteously exact in his. 
 attention to me and the birds. He 
 
 23 
 
even tried once or twice to take my 
 hand. But he never succeeded in 
 more than getting the tips of my fin- 
 gers — and that for but an instant at 
 a time. I hunted doggedly on. 
 
 Two birds rose before us. The 
 rage of the hunter came* They were 
 within good range. I threw up my 
 gun and fired. One fell and fluttered 
 on the ground a moment* then lay 
 still. The other, evidently hit, gave 
 a piteous little cry. circled blindly for 
 an instant, then flew lamely toward 
 the sea. I fired the second barrel, and 
 the already wounded bird dropped 
 heavily into the surf and fluttered 
 impotently there. 
 
 Two more came into range. 
 
 24 
 
" Billy ," I cried, with my eyes on 
 the coming two, emptying and refill- 
 ing the barrels, "get the one in the 
 surf!" 
 
 I fired at the other two — both bar- 
 rels — and missed entirely. 
 
 "Billy!" I cried angrily. "The 
 bird!" 
 
 I can see lovely little Billy now! 
 He stood there, in the glorious, 
 flooding sunshine, motionless, with 
 his hands tight over his eyes! His 
 pretty pink legs had been made bare 
 for the surf! His tiny sleeves were 
 pushed up ! But the rage of the hunter 
 was upon me — and, added to that, 
 was the rage of a fair miss. 
 
 " Billy," I cried, with brutal ferocity, 
 
 25 
 
"get that bird before it goes out! Go! 
 It will get away ! " 
 
 Billy drove himself into the surf and 
 brought me the fluttering little crea- 
 ture* He put it into my hand with his 
 two — so tenderly, with such terror 
 and choking pity, that for the first 
 time I began, perhaps, to understand. 
 
 And, again, I have a picture of my 
 Billy where it will never fade — where 
 it will always make and keep me 
 gentle. The spray had dashed upon 
 his blond head and sparkled there like 
 pearls in the diadem of some young 
 and very fair god. His bare legs and 
 arms shone with the cool salt water. 
 It dripped from the two small hands 
 which held the dying bird. I cannot 
 
 26 
 
3r*SS.I| Willi hM %f>YtH 
 
 " He put it into my hand ... so tenderly . . . that for the 
 first time I began, perhaps, to understand " 
 
tell you of his eyes. But I see them 
 now! There was that in them which 
 I knew had not come from the sea ! 
 And that in his breathing which I 
 knew did not come from the air! 
 
 As I took the throbbing creature 
 from his hands I knew that I had 
 lost Billy forever ! Though I did not 
 know why, quite — I did not under- 
 stand yet, quite — why I was a felon 
 in his pure intelligence. 
 
 44 What is the matter, Billy-Boy ? " I 
 asked guiltily. " Why do you tremble ? 
 Why is your face so white? And 
 why did n't you want to get the bird ? " 
 
 44 May I go home ? " begged Billy. 
 
 "No. I want to know first why 
 you hate me/' 
 
 29 
 
"I don't hate you/' said the little 
 boy, "yet." 
 
 The wounded bird fluttered out of 
 my hand and fell upon the ground. I 
 put my foot hastily upon it. Billy's 
 "yet" had taken away my breath. 
 
 " Take your foot away ! " 
 
 It was a stern command from Billy 
 and I obeyed it. But instantly I was 
 angry, both at myself and Billy — for 
 his autocratic command and my 
 craven, involuntary obedience to it. I 
 reclaimed the bird from him savagely. 
 
 44 Turn your back ! It is wounded 
 and must not be left to suffer. I will 
 kill it. Be silent!" 
 
 But my own command was the 
 desperate expedient of the convicted. 
 
 30 
 
It was nothing like imperial innocent 
 Billy's. Nor was it so obeyed. 
 
 "Let me have it," begged Billy, 
 chokingly. "I can cure it!" 
 
 I laughed — but far from happily. 
 
 " Nothing — nobody can cure it ! 
 
 "Anyhow, it is better for it to die 
 than to be killed." 
 
 O wonderful distinction ! 
 
 "This is more merciful," I said, but 
 I could not proceed to execute my easy 
 kind of mercy. 
 
 "But it is your fault, papa. You 
 hurt it, and now you want to kill it 
 * cause you hurt it. And it's only a 
 helpless little bird that couldn't hurt 
 you** 
 
 Taking advantage of one's own 
 
 3J 
 
wrong has never had a more power- 
 ful or personal demonstration. 
 
 Billy caressed the little, ruffled, be- 
 draggled thing in my hands, speaking 
 a sort of language to it that I did not 
 understand, but which I think the 
 dying creature did. At least I hope 
 so ; and I hope that when I die Billy 
 will be able to speak as lovingly to 
 me, and that I shall understand as 
 well. 
 
 But among other things I heard Billy 
 saying : 
 
 " This was the first shot, birdie dear 
 — the poor little wing. That was 
 the time you cried out. Billy had to 
 hide his eyes then! Oh, but did tit 
 it hurt us I This was the second shot 
 
 32 
 
— this is the dear little neck — when 
 you thought you were safe at sea ! 
 And that hurt more* Oh, it wasn't 
 nice to hurt a little birdie already 
 hurted." 
 
 And then into my soul Billy put 
 the knife and turned it. 
 
 "See how it pains him when I 
 touch that wing 1 " Billy's touch, to give 
 pain! "And, oh, papa! feel its dear 
 little heart beat ! Papa — you did it." 
 
 I felt it now — that small heart — I 
 had not before. It would go wildly 
 for an instant — then so slowly that 
 it was lost. 
 
 "Billy," I begged, now reduced to 
 that, " I must kill it. You must let me. 
 Turn your back. You are too young 
 
 33 
 
to understand. I must ! " and I was 
 sick at heart because I must. " Take 
 care ! You will soil your clothes with 
 the blood." 
 
 "I don't care — I don't care ! " cried 
 the little boy. " Give it to me ! It 
 will live a white longer, anyhow ! " 
 
 " Billy, we must be merciful to the 
 little bird and kill it" I insisted, 
 hoping that he would do it — lovely 
 Billy — yet frenzied with fear that 
 he might! 
 
 But it was useless to try to make 
 Billy understand such a fearful philos- 
 ophy as that — Billy, who had not his 
 philosophies from earth, but heaven, 
 I think. I did not understand it my- 
 self just then. 
 
 34 
 
" They don't kill people who are 
 hurt* They try to cure them," said 
 Billy. 
 
 "But, Billy, this is only a little 
 bird I " 
 
 44 And you are a big man I " 
 
 It was Billy's ultimatum. And he 
 had better have called me a monster 
 torturing a pigmy. There was no 
 answer to it. What was I to do? 
 There lay the bird in my palm, gasp- 
 ing through the shot-holes in its neck. 
 It was useless to tell Billy again that 
 nothing could save the small life, 
 that it had but a minute more of 
 existence. 
 
 ** Papa, ought n't we be kind to it ? 
 We hurt it!" 
 
 35 
 
Do you observe that he said "We!" 
 
 I think I was becoming a bit hyster- 
 ical* But I shall call it simply impa- 
 tience. Then I found myself angry 
 at the cruel position into which Billy 
 had at last forced me. 
 
 "Turn your back!" I cried savagely. 
 
 Billy did this, and I killed the bird 
 and threw it up on the bit of a hill 
 where Billy had used to sit. When I 
 turned, with the very guilt of a felon 
 inside and my hands red with what 
 Billy had first made to seem inno- 
 cent blood, to face the most relentless 
 judge in the world, Billy was gone. 
 I thanked God for it. 
 
 36 
 
WHO BECAME MY JUDGE— 
 
 I HAVE never shot another bird. 
 I have since tried to kill no living 
 creature. For, whatever may be 
 its form, it has within it that wondrous 
 thing which God alone can give and 
 perhaps — who knows ? — ought alone 
 to take — life. And the little boy and I 
 go out together once more. At first 
 he was very shy of me. He under- 
 stood, I think, that he had judged me 
 with too stern a justice — for his years 
 and mine. And, while I am sure that 
 he did not regret it, for he must have 
 had an almost celestial obsession of its 
 
 37 
 
justice, he, I am also sure, rather felt 
 that he had exercised powers not yet 
 confided to him. Then, perhaps, too, 
 there might have been something of 
 the sensation which a judge must feel 
 who finds himself compelled to intimate 
 relations with the ex-convict he has 
 made — but who has pledged reforma- 
 tion. I think no one quite knows what 
 a judge's attitude ought to be in such 
 a case. It is, to say the least, embar- 
 rassing to both. Again, Billy may 
 not have been as certain of my refor- 
 mation as I was. I had not spoken. 
 I was both hurt and ashamed before 
 my serious little boy. I felt that he 
 should have trusted my superior wis- 
 dom. Indeed, the only surety Billy 
 
 38 
 
could have in those later days was 
 that I never took my gun along when 
 we went out. But even that I had 
 not omitted at first. I was too proud 
 to at once admit my conviction and 
 reformation. At first I would carry 
 my empty gun with me and come 
 home whistling, as though it were the 
 most natural and inspiring thing in 
 the world for a hunter to carry an 
 empty gun on his shoulder and never 
 hunt. And then I fancied that I was 
 not half as bad as Billy thought me. 
 I had always hated to kill wounded 
 birds. Every hunter does. But what 
 was one to do? There stood that 
 law of the hunter and the hunted, that 
 a wounded animal must be killed so 
 
 39 
 
that it might not suffer. And Billy- 
 had no business to think that I took 
 pleasure in this. 
 
 Of course, it was good to know 
 that since my retirement from active 
 hunting Billy had ceased to be so ill. 
 Perhaps you will observe between us 
 a bit of that heredity which should 
 have made us very intimate comrades. 
 For neither was inclined to unbosom 
 until time should do its perfect work 
 in showing him his folly. But the 
 fact is that I had about reached that 
 point in my temperament. I knew 
 now that I could have Billy's love 
 back for my confidence, and I knew 
 that he was waiting for it. But I was 
 not yet sure that he — little Billy — 
 
 40 
 
was entitled to this from me — big 
 William — his father. 
 
 Nevertheless then, that sensation — 
 have you ever known it ? — that your 
 little boy is at your side, but that you 
 must not touch him — to understand 
 that he is probably wondering whether 
 you have no courage, to have the sus- 
 picion, finally, that he may be better 
 and bigger and braver in his little 
 heavenly unwisdom than you with 
 all yours of the world ? All this per- 
 sisted steadily. 
 
 Said Billy one day, just to show 
 you how clairvoyantly he understood: 
 
 " Papa, we have n't ' confided * much 
 lately, have we?" 
 
 "What's that?" I asked cunningly, 
 
 41 
 
knowing perfectly what he meant, but 
 exercising the convict's wariness* 
 
 " Don't you know how you used to 
 tell me that I must tell you — or some 
 one — all my troubles ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that then I would always 
 feel better?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that it hurts the nice clean 
 heart to keep nasty things in it ? " 
 
 " Yes. What have you to tell ?" 
 
 "Nothing, papa dear — / haven't 
 anything/' 
 
 We were not walking close as of 
 old on this day. He still was not 
 sure. How could he be? He must 
 still have felt that barrier between the 
 
 42 
 
convict and the judge, I suppose he 
 had made it clear to himself that our 
 hearts must be cleaned out by my initi- 
 ative — according to my own teach- 
 ing — and could only be in that way. 
 And the whole case — the purpose, the 
 repentance, the forgiveness — must be 
 put into direct words for his pure 
 young soul. Certainly he could not 
 ask me whether I — in his own under- 
 standing of it — meant to go on mur- 
 dering little birds; whether this were 
 only a temporary cessation of my 
 criminal instinct! That was for me. 
 The fact is that Billy at first made 
 many of these opportunities for me to 
 ** confide/' But, then, when I failed of 
 advantage in them, with the temper 
 
 43 
 
of the just judge considering the case 
 of a loved but stubborn culprit, who 
 must reach happiness through sorrow, 
 he no longer made it easy for me. 
 Though I do not say, of course, that 
 Billy reached any of those conclusions 
 by argument. With him I think it 
 was that intelligence from above with 
 which children are born, and which 
 we would do better to let alone to go 
 to its natural death in the holocaust of 
 the world rather than hasten to its 
 destruction because it is "childish." 
 
 44 
 
WHO TWISTED THE KNIFE— 
 
 v NE day a flock of the very 
 
 birds I had used to kill rose 
 
 before us. 
 
 " We could get two or three out of 
 
 that bunch, papa dear, could n't we 
 
 — if we had the gun?" 
 
 We! I grew very warm at this 
 renewed twisting of the knife, and 
 answered him nothing. 
 
 The little boy twisted it again: 
 44 Don't you wish we had the gun ? " 
 "No!" I said terribly. 
 He was shocked to a pleased silence 
 for a moment. 
 
 45 
 
This was evidently good, but it did 
 not go far enough. Billy must know 
 what I would not yet tell He went 
 on heroically: 
 
 "That's always the way" — he 
 quoted a gunner's aphorism — "No 
 gun, game plenty* Game plenty, no 
 gun ! " 
 
 He had pushed me to the wall at 
 last. I took him so savagely by his 
 thin, beautiful little shoulders that 
 terror flew to his eyes. I made him 
 to face me. I think in that moment he 
 feared his first physical chastisement. 
 Perhaps he had gone too far with me ? 
 Perhaps he had been impudent ? 
 
 " Papa," he said, " I am sorry ! " 
 
 "Boy," I said, "we shall never 
 
 46 
 
again kill anything God made* Do 
 you understand ? " 
 
 For a moment he could not believe. 
 Then he smiled, laughed, and, with 
 his laughter, plentiful tears streamed 
 down his dear face. For a long time 
 we stood there, Billy struggling chok- 
 ingly with his laughter and sobs for 
 some of the words which must have 
 poured from his heart too thickly for 
 his lips; I, awkward, as if I stood 
 in the presence of an august being I 
 yearned for, but must not approach 
 without invitation until I had been 
 judged, I cannot now remember who 
 first did it. But presently with Billy 
 and me it was " arms all 'round," as 
 we used to call it. And, though I 
 
 47 
 
could not subdue my pride sufficiently 
 to say so, and have not even to this 
 day, Billy, happy as he was, was not 
 so happy as L 
 
 For Billy was mine again, and I 
 was his, for so little a price ! and we 
 both knew that it would be always 
 so now. 
 
 "Papa dear, le — let us gi — go 
 up there and — ti — talk, papa dear, 
 4 confide M" 
 
 He dragged me by the arm up to 
 the top of the bit hillock where I had 
 flung the dead bird that day. And 
 more and more I knew by the sure 
 clutch of the little hand on my arm — 
 oh, you know that grip of sure loving 
 possession ? — I hope so I — that Billy 
 
 48 
 
FCS^EWIUCOK SMITh 
 
 " It was * arms all 'round ' n 
 
and I were one and inseparable forever 
 and ever ! 
 
 The hillock was crowned with 
 splendid flowers and grasses; the sun 
 was setting at its back ; the sea spread 
 before it in pink to the blue and green 
 sky ; and the perfume of the wild roses 
 in the meadows afar back had come 
 to seek the sea I It was such a spot 
 that Billy, or happy fate, chose for our 
 44 confiding/' 
 
 I was so glad that I did not scruple 
 to begin with laughter: 
 
 44 Billy-Boy " I said, " you played a 
 hard game. You never once made it 
 easy for me — as I do for you when 
 we are to confide/' 
 
 "I didn't know how, papa dear," 
 
 51 
 
mourned Billy, nestling to me, "I 
 couldn't. I tried — 'deed I did I If 
 you had only — only — oh, I dunno 
 what I I was bovvered awful ! I 
 wasn't nice to you, was I?" 
 
 " As nice as I deserved, I suppose/' 
 
 I laughed again, kissing the top of 
 Billy's head where it projected through 
 my circling arm. 
 
 "Now, will you go first, or shall 
 I ? " For that was the manner of our 
 confiding — to first agree upon a basis 
 of procedure. 
 
 " I dess I better go first," said Billy, 
 generously — for by our code, strictly 
 pursued, it was my duty to open. 
 
 "Well," I said, not to be outdone 
 in generosity by my antagonist, "I 
 
 52 
 
think you may, though I ought, for 
 you have made up the case against 
 me and know it better than I do, even 
 if I suspect it pretty thoroughly " 
 
 Billy went on, almost solemnly : 
 
 " Well, you see, papa dear, I asked 
 mama how many little birdies you 
 had killed and she said she did not 
 know. But I made her think. So 
 I said, * Was it a thousand ? ' Mama 
 said, * Oh, yes I ■ And I said, ' Two 
 thousand, mama?' And she said, 
 'Yes, perhaps two thousand/" 
 
 "I'm afraid, Boy," I said, "that 
 mama was very lenient. It is more 
 than that." 
 
 But he did not seek to convict me 
 of the deeper offence. He was gentle 
 
 53 
 
now — neither judge nor accuser, but 
 comforter — Billy! Instead, he raced 
 on, unloading his heart, as I had 
 taught him to do. 
 
 "Well, that is what made me ill. 
 I couldn't help thinking about it in 
 the dark. And I did see things — like 
 you said. I saw all those two thou- 
 sand little birdies. Oh, it was such a 
 flock I And then I had to think about 
 them all stopping chattering in the tree 
 — that's how I saw them — and fall- 
 ing dead on the ground, and my papa 
 — and me — there with the pretty 
 gun. They were such little things, 
 and you and me were so big ! Noth- 
 ing is so nice and pretty as a birdie, is 
 it, papa ? " 
 
 54 
 
44 Nothing/* I said, 
 
 44 And they sing for us ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ** And they never hurt a thing ! " 
 
 44 Not a thing/' 
 
 44 Don't you love to see them flying 
 — almost up to the sky ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Papa, God must like 'em — to let 
 'em do that ! " 
 
 44 Yes, I think He does." 
 
 44 And so easy — easy — easy ! No 
 boy nor man can do that, can they ? " 
 
 "No," I said, "the wisest men on 
 earth have tried to do it — they have 
 even tried to find out how the birds 
 do it. But God has kept their secret. 
 They have all failed. I think God 
 
 55 
 
will always keep the secret of the 
 birds, and that men will never be able 
 to fly as they do." 
 
 " Go on, papa ! Tell me more stuff 
 about that ! " cried the enraptured little 
 boy. 
 
 But I had to confess that he had 
 heard all I knew about flying — either 
 by men or birds* 
 
 " Besides," I said, " are n't we get- 
 ting away from the case on trial ? " 
 
 Billy did not even smile as he at 
 once resumed it* 
 
 "That's where the life comes in, 
 papa dear. One minute a birdie is 
 flying in the sky as light as cotton. 
 Then some one shoots little bullets 
 through it and it falls like lead. 
 
 56 
 
That's the life, papa, isn't it, that 
 goes out through the little bullet- 
 holes ?" 
 
 "Y-yes,"Isaid. 
 
 " And that goes away, away, some- 
 where, mebby back to God ? " 
 
 "Perhaps," I choked. 
 
 "And then the little birdie's just 
 like a stone!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And how fast, fast they fly ! " 
 
 "The fastest bird," I said wisely, 
 glad to get away from Billy's terrible 
 speculations upon life, "goes faster 
 than anything men have yet made." 
 
 " Faster than a railroad train ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes!" 
 
 " And then, when they 're shot, all 
 
 57 
 
that life goes out and they stop and fall 
 just like this ! " 
 
 He smote his pink hands together in 
 illustration* 
 
 " Papa, what is the life? " 
 
 "Well, Billy," I wavered, "I don't 
 think any one knows. That is God's 
 secret too." 
 
 "And birds are such happy little 
 things, papa dear. And round. And 
 their feathers are so beautiful and fit 
 so well. I don't believe people could 
 make feathers ! " 
 
 "Nor I," I admitted. 
 
 He was quite out of breath and 
 stopped to recover. 
 
 " That 's why I could n't sleep." 
 
 " And was that all ? Is it all out ? " 
 
 53 
 
u 
 
 Yes — honist, papa/' 
 
 44 And you will get well now ? " 
 
 44 Oh, yes, papa dear ! I am well ! " 
 
 44 The birds will never have a braver 
 champion/* said I. 
 
 "It wasn't the birdies — all," said 
 Billy, so quickly that I knew he meant 
 to correct some misunderstanding of 
 mine* 
 
 "What then? "I asked. 
 
 44 You, papa dear." 
 
 44 Thank you, Boy," I said. " We 
 shall not need to bother about that any 
 more. I Ve reformed." 
 
 44 1 know," said Billy, "and I'm 
 sorry it hurts you. But it used to 
 hurt me when you 'd kill things. Papa, 
 sometimes I wasn't ill. But then I 
 
 59 
 
didn't have to go out with you and 
 kill" 
 
 "I forgive you," I smiled, a bit 
 sadly, I fear. 
 
 Billy kissed me. 
 
 "Papa," he said, "to-night Pll kiss 
 you good-night, too. Shall I tell you 
 more stuff?" 
 
 " Yes — everything. We must 
 cleanse the little heart." 
 
 "I didn't know that you are as 
 nice as you are!" 
 
 I laughed and proved to Billy-Boy 
 just how nice I could be* 
 
 " But I guess I was n't very nice to 
 you. Mebby if I had told you not to 
 kill the birds — that it hurts me in 
 here — " he put both his small hands 
 
 60 
 
against his chest — ** you would n't 
 have?" 
 
 " Do anything to hurt Billy ? Cer- 
 tainly not ! " 
 
 " Then/' he said oracularly, u it is 
 all my fault." 
 
 I let him have the comfort of think- 
 ing himself a fellow criminal with me. 
 
 "Well, say out fault?" 
 
 "Yes. So I went and found that 
 one — you know — up here on this 
 hill — and buried it in a little grave, 
 with sticks around to keep the snakes 
 out. When we go home I'll show 
 you. Oh, I did n't tell you something 
 else!" 
 
 " Tell me quickly ! " I cried. " You 
 must play fair ! " 
 
 6J 
 
But do you observe that I was tell- 
 ing the little boy nothing? And that 
 he generously remitted that? 
 
 "Well, one night when I could n't 
 sleep, I thought that I wasn't much 
 better nor bigger nor stronger than a 
 birdie. And I know I 'm not so pretty. 
 Well, there are giants. To a giant I 
 am just as little account as a bird or 
 an ant — mebby. And what would 
 you think if some giant would come 
 along some day before I could get out 
 of his way and step on me — and not 
 even know it — just walk on ? And 
 I wondered how I 'd feel. It would 
 hurt me dreadfully, would n't it ? And, 
 papa, you 'd hate him ! He so big and 
 me so little! And mebby he'd step 
 
 62 
 
on me just for fun. That is the way- 
 people do to ants. And laugh ! Papa, 
 would n't you hate the giant ?" 
 
 "If any giant should hurt you, 
 Boy, he would have to settle with me, 
 though he were as tall as a church 
 steeple ! " I said. 
 
 "I knew it! Big things have no 
 business to kill little things! They 
 ought to take care of them — like you 
 do of me. Oh, yes ! And, papa, you 
 would n't like me to kill birdies, would 
 you?" 
 
 44 Boy — Boy — Boy," I cried, crush- 
 ing him to me, " no ! " 
 
 "No. You have told me not to 
 kill things!" 
 
 Billy seemed to think a moment 
 
 63 
 
very seriously. Then he said: "I 
 guess that *s all, papa dear. And I 
 won't put no chair behind the door 
 to-night, and you may sit on my bed 
 and tell me sleepy stories/' 
 
 (A 
 
WHO TOOK ME HOME WITH 
 HIM — 
 
 THEN we went homeward* It 
 was quite evening. The sun 
 was nearly gone. The air 
 was saffron — the sea. We seemed 
 to be walking straight into the great 
 yellow disk already half below the 
 waters. The path was strewn with 
 wild rose leaves. The breeze was 
 nectar. Billy and I were at peace, 
 and all the earth seemed with us. 
 When we neared the porch he leaped 
 upon my shoulder and shouted so lus- 
 tily that she who looked anxiously for 
 
 65 
 
 
us both came smiling to the door at 
 once, and at once understood. The 
 doctor was with her* He wisely felt 
 the little boy's pulse and made him 
 put out his tongue. 
 
 44 A perfect recovery /' he said. 44 It 
 is wonderful — wonderful, what sun- 
 shine will do. He was really a very 
 sick boy. I don't think I need to 
 come again." 
 
 44 Does he, Boy ? " asked I. 
 
 " No," laughed the little boy, with 
 his arms close about my neck and a 
 confidential hug; for he, too, under- 
 stood. 
 
 Then, when the doctor was gone : 
 
 " Oh, I nearly forgot ! n cried Billy. 
 
 He said nothing more, but led me 
 
 66 
 
by the hand into the garden* At last 
 we came to a small green place he had 
 fenced about with sticks* Inside was 
 a tiny mound* At each end of it were 
 small slabs of wood which he had 
 shaved with the kitchen knife into rude 
 shapes of gravestones. I noticed that 
 they were void of letters, which Billy 
 began to know. 
 
 "Papa/* whispered the little boy. 
 44 take off your hat. please." 
 
 I did so. He had taken off his cap 
 long before. 
 
 44 Pardon me. Billy dear." I said, a 
 strange choking in my throat. 
 
 Billy said nothing. But I heard his 
 voice break in a sob as he tried to 
 speak. He was on his knees at the 
 
 67 
 
small green spot. And, I hesitate to 
 confess it, but I dropped to my knees 
 beside Billy and took him in my 
 arms. You see, you have never been 
 me, nor had a Billy-Boy, or I would 
 not have to be ashamed to confess 
 that. 
 
 "Papa, aren't we sorry for the 
 poor birdie ?" whispered Billy. 
 
 Do you observe that the little boy 
 said "We"? 
 
 I told him that we were, using 
 the pronoun he had chosen — glad 
 to do so. 
 
 " I knew you would be. So I went 
 and found it, and we won't have to be 
 sorry for — that — papa dear." 
 
 " Thank you, Billy," I said huskily. 
 
 63 
 
"I wish we had all of those two 
 thousand, papa dear." 
 
 " I do, too, Billy/' 
 
 He apologized for the blankness of 
 the tombstone : 
 
 I did n't know exactly what to put 
 on it — " 
 
 But then he remembered to be per- 
 fectly frank, as we had long ago 
 agreed to be with each other. 
 
 "No, that isn't right, papa dear. 
 I did it when we — we — did n't love 
 each other. And I could n't say ' Died 
 the twenty-ninth day of June/ and so 
 on, for ' died ' is what we say of the 
 things God kills. And He has the 
 right, I expect — though I don't see 
 why He should kill things He makes. 
 
 69 
 
And I didn't like to say 'killed/ 
 even if we didn't love each other 
 then. Killed means murder. Any- 
 how, don't you think God under- 
 stands ? " 
 
 " Yes/' I said, and wished that He 
 might forgive as He understood. 
 
 " That 's why they put the names, 
 and so forth, on tombstones — so that 
 God understands. And don't you re- 
 member that in the Testament about 
 not a sparrow falling down on the 
 ground except God sees him? And 
 a snipe is just as nice as a sparrow 
 — don't you think ? " 
 
 70 
 
AND TOOK THE CHAIR FROM 
 BEHIND THE DOOR — 
 
 THAT night, indeed, the little 
 boy did not put a chair behind 
 his door* And I kissed him 
 good-night for the first time in two 
 weeks. And he kissed me three 
 times back — as though to say in that 
 opulent fashion that all was fair for- 
 ever between us. And then, that 
 there might be no doubt to keep me 
 waking, he called me back and kissed 
 me again, winding his soft arms and 
 legs about me in what he supposed a 
 leviathan garroting. 
 
And this time I might not go till I 
 had told him a sleepy story of a 
 strange man who nearly lost his little 
 boy's love, and a curious little boy 
 who nearly lost his father's love, be- 
 cause they did not quite understand 
 the workings of the little beating thing 
 in the breast called a " heart/' nor the 
 wonders of another thing called the 
 44 soul." So that each had to turn his 
 heart inside out to the other, until 
 each knew its workings and confided 
 many things until they knew better 
 the wonders of the soul. After that 
 there was no more danger, because 
 they would always do that when they 
 did not understand. 
 
 Little Billy's eyes had already 
 
 72 
 
closed. But he tore them open to 
 shout happily: 
 
 "Why, that's me!" 
 
 ** You ? " said I, very happily* 
 
 "And you, papa!" 
 
 Then Billy, indeed, slept. 
 
 I watched him a moment. And 
 if you had known Billy you would 
 have watched him, too. You could n't 
 have helped it. And that is another 
 picture I have of Billy — his sleeping. 
 Perhaps it is the dearest. I wonder 
 whether any one ever watched me as 
 I slept ? I wonder if I ever was worth 
 it? I am certain I was not as well 
 worth it as Billy. Are you? 
 
 73 
 
And now we go out together every- 
 day* In fact, Billy is disconsolate if 
 we cannot. And I am mad for it. 
 But we won't even pull the flowers 
 — for fear it will hurt them. 
 
 44 For we don't know, do we, papa 
 dear ? n says Billy. 
 
 And I answer : 
 
 " No, we don't know." 
 
 Do you ? 
 
 And it is sweeter that way, even 
 if we did know. 
 
 44 We 're just as happy with each 
 other," comforts Billy. 
 
 And I answer yes, though I am not 
 just as happy — I am happier. 
 
 74