for once to tell him the truth, as it sometimes hurts. He said, “Homer, will you please tell me what has happened? Have you had any trouble at home? Speak up plainly.” “No,” I said, “nothing wrong there.” “Then tell me what this strange departure means. I got up early, called you, and you were not in your room. Tell me just the plain truth.”
“Well, I’m here learning the shoemaker’s trade of Frank Simeral, and I started in to saw.” “You’re what?” said Father. “I’m learning the shoemaker’s trade.” He made me repeat it till it sounded ghastly, then taking me by one hand he squeezed it gently and affectionately when he said, “Homer, look me square in the eye.” I thought on that particular occasion just a stab over the shoulder would do, but he said, “No, right in the eye. You know, don’t you, that I sold the most beautiful farm you or any one else ever saw, mainly that you might live here in Silverton so that if by any chance you didn’t turn out to be a cartoonist, you couldn’t say that I hadn’t done all that was in my power to do for your art education. You know that, don’t you?” “Yes,” I said. “Then do you think you are playing me
