"Yes, 'My children love me.' They are
not children, but angels.
And yet--God save me from having to be supported by them. They
bring in a considerable sum at the end of the week, and they hate
to see me work or worry. But, oh, how sweet it is to earn one's
own living! Thank God, I do earn my share and my wife's. My
children are bitterly opposed to it. They beg me to stay home, but
I say: 'No, children mine! As long as your father can earn his
bread, his bread he will earn.' That's why my humdrum occupation
is so sweet to me." At this he lowered his eyes and said, with the
embarrassed simper which seemed to accompany every remark of
his that implied self-appreciation, "I wrote something on this
subject the other day, just a line or two: 'There are instances when
the jewel of poetry glints out of the prose of trade.'"
The fact that his children contributed to the maintenance of the
family nest was evidently a sore spot in his heart
His face, sensitive and mobile in the extreme, was like a
cinematographic film.
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