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“You’ll live here, always?”

The Swede shook his head and the boy’s face grew older.

“No; some day, we’re going to the city–Minna and I. We’ve planned.”

Ichabod was thoughtful a minute.

“I’m a friend of yours, Ole.”

“A very good friend,” repeated the mystified Swede.

“Then, listen, and don’t forget.” The voice was vibrant, low, but the boy heard it clearly above the noise of the wagon. “Don’t do it, Ole; in God’s name, don’t do it! Stay here, you’ll be happy.” He looked the open-mouthed listener deep in the eyes. “If you ever say a prayer, let it be the old one, even though it be an insult to a just God:–‘Lead us not into temptation.’ Avoid, as you would avoid death, the love of money, the fever of unrest, the desire to become greater than your fellows, the thirst to know and to taste all things, which is the spirit of the city. Live close to Nature, where all is equal and all is good; where sleep comes in the time of sleep, and work when it is day. Do that labor which comes to you at the moment, leaving to-morrow to Nature.” He crossed his long legs, and pressed his hat down over his eyes. “Accept life as Nature gives it, day by day. Don’t question, and you’ll find it good.” He repeated himself slowly. “That’s the secret. Don’t doubt, or question anything.”

In the Swede’s throat there was a rattling, which presaged speech, but it died away.

“Do you love children, Ole?” asked Ichabod, suddenly.

The boy face flushed. Ole was very young.

“I–” he lagged.

“Of course you do. Every living human being does. It’s the one good instinct, which even the lust of gain doesn’t down. It’s the tie that binds,–the badge of brotherhood which makes the world one.” He gently laid his hand on the broad shoulder beside him.

“Don’t be ashamed to say you love children, boy, though the rest of the world laugh,–for they’re laughing at a lie. They’ll tell you the parental instinct is dying out with the advance of civilization; that the time will come when man will educate himself to his own extinction. It’s false, I tell you, absolutely false.” Ichabod had forgotten himself, and he rushed on, far above the head of the gaping Swede.

“There’s one instinct in the world, the instinct of parenthood, which advances eternal, stronger, infinitely, as man’s mind grows stronger. So unvarying the rule that it’s almost an index of civilization itself, advancing from a crude instinct of the body-base and animal–until it reaches the realm of the mind: the highest, the holiest of man’s desires: yet stronger immeasurably, as with the educated, things of the mind are stronger than things of the body. Those who deny this are fools, or imposters,–I know not which. To do so is to strike at the very foundation of human nature,–but impotently,–for in fundamentals, human nature is good.” Unconsciously, a smile flashed over the long face.

“Talk about depopulating the earth! All the wars of primitive man were inadequate. The vices of civilization have likewise failed. Even man’s mightiest weapon, legislation, couldn’t stay the tide for a moment, if it would. While man is man, and woman is woman, that long, above government, religion,–life and death itself,–will reign supreme the eternal instinct of parenthood.”

Ichabod caught himself in his own period and stopped, a little ashamed of his earnestness. He sat up in the seat preparatory to returning to his own wagon, then dropped his hand once more on the boy’s shoulder.

“I’m old enough to be your father, boy, and have done, in all things, the reverse of what I advised you. Therefore, I know I was wrong. We may sneer and speak of poetry when the words proceed from another, my boy; but, as inevitable as death, there comes to every man the knowledge that he stands accursed of Nature, who hasn’t heard the voice of his own child call ‘father!'”