But twelve is the very top of boyhood.
Dressing, that morning, Penrod felt that the world was changed from the
world of yesterday. For one thing, he seemed to own more of it; this
day was HIS day. And it was a day worth owning; the midsummer sunshine,
pouring gold through his window, came from a cool sky, and a breeze
moved pleasantly in his hair as he leaned from the sill to watch the
tribe of clattering blackbirds take wing, following their leader
from the trees in the yard to the day's work in the open country. The
blackbirds were his, as the sunshine and the breeze were his, for they
all belonged to the day which was his birthday and therefore most surely
his. Pride suffused him: he was twelve!
His father and his mother and Margaret seemed to understand the
difference between to-day and yesterday. They were at the table when
he descended, and they gave him a greeting which of itself marked the
milestone. Habitually, his entrance into a room where his elders sat
brought a cloud of apprehension: they were prone to look up in pathetic
expectancy, as if their thought was, "What new awfulness is he going to
start NOW?" But this morning they laughed; his mother rose and kissed
him twelve times, so did Margaret; and his father shouted, "Well, well!
How's the MAN?"
Then his mother gave him a Bible and "The Vicar of Wakefield"; Margaret
gave him a pair of silver-mounted hair brushes; and his father gave him
a "Pocket Atlas" and a small compass.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213