"Mother," he said, "you have a wonderful hand. And father made
no mistake
when he won you. But are you sure he has always been so
inerrant?"
"Harold," she exclaimed, a little stiffly, "what do you mean?
His life is an open book."
"Oh," he answered, "I don't mean anything bad, mother dear.
I know the governor's life is an open book--a ledger, if you
like,
kept in the best bookkeeping hand, and always ready for
inspection--every page correct, and showing a handsome balance.
But isn't it a mistake not to allow us to make our own mistakes,
to learn for ourselves, to live our own lives? Must we be
always working for 'the balance,' in one thing or another?
I want to be myself--to get outside of this everlasting,
profitable 'plan'--to let myself go, and lose myself for a while
at least--to do the things that I want to do, just because
I want to do them."
"My boy," said his mother, anxiously, "you are not going to do
anything
wrong or foolish? You know the falsehood of that old proverb
about
wild oats."
He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes, mother," he answered,
"I know it well enough. But in California, you know, the wild
oats are
one of the most valuable crops.
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