CHAPTER XVIII. ON ACCOUNT OF THE WEATHER
There is no boredom (not even an invalid's) comparable to that of
a boy who has nothing to do. When a man says he has nothing to
do, he speaks idly; there is always more than he can do. Grown
women never say they have nothing to do, and when girls or little
girls say they have nothing to do, they are merely airing an
affectation. But when a boy has nothing to do, he has actually
nothing at all to do; his state is pathetic, and when he
complains of it his voice is haunting.
Mrs. Schofield was troubled by this uncomfortable quality in the
voice of her son, who came to her thrice, in his search for
entertainment or even employment, one Saturday afternoon during
the February thaw. Few facts are better established than that the
February thaw is the poorest time of year for everybody. But for
a boy it is worse than poorest; it is bankrupt. The remnant
streaks of old soot-speckled snow left against the north walls of
houses have no power to inspire; rather, they are dreary
reminders of sports long since carried to satiety.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259