In the light of the sparks from the anvil
in the shop in the cave, sparks that burned brighter even than the light
of day, a comradeship between father and son was formed, and they were
companions until the boy reached manhood when the death of the father
separated them.
There was nothing pretentious about the home in which he was raised. It
was but a cabin, yet the chairs, the tables were of seasoned oak,
hand-made, solid. The puncheon floor was worn smooth with use and over
it was a polished glow from the care of cleanliness, showing purity was
there. The walls were papered with newspapers. That was to keep out the
winter's wind, but over the windows were curtains of white muslin, and a
scarf of it ran the length of the simple board mantel-shelf, and in
season the blossom of some flower swayed there. Within the home, no
angry words were heard, but often there was laughter and song, and when
the formulas for conduct were not followed, even the words of correction
were affectionately spoken.
As the boy's first steps were guided by tender hands, so the proper way
to walk through life was pointed out with gentle words and simple
truths. The mother's teachings were the products of an untrained mind,
but her philosophies came from a brain that has the power to think
clearly and quickly and is never influenced by either anger or
excitement--qualities transmitted eminently to her son.
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