Just David | Page 5

the books of his father's choosing. For six years that father had thought,
planned, breathed, moved, lived for his son. There had been no others
in the little cabin. There had been only the occasional trips through the
woods to the little town on the mountain-side for food and clothing, to
break the days of close companionship.
All this the man had planned carefully. He had meant that only the
good and beautiful should have place in David's youth. It was not that
he intended that evil, unhappiness, and death should lack definition,
only definiteness, in the boy's mind. It should be a case where the good
and the beautiful should so fill the thoughts that there would be no
room for anything else. This had been his plan. And thus far he had
succeeded--succeeded so wonderfully that he began now, in the face of
his own illness, and of what he feared would come of it, to doubt the
wisdom of that planning.
As he looked at the boy's rapt face, he remembered David's surprised
questioning at the first dead squirrel he had found in the woods. David
was six then.
"Why, daddy, he's asleep, and he won't wake up!" he had cried. Then,
after a gentle touch: "And he's cold--oh, so cold!"
The father had hurried his son away at the time, and had evaded his
questions; and David had seemed content. But the next day the boy had
gone back to the subject. His eyes were wide then, and a little
frightened.
"Father, what is it to be--dead?"

"What do you mean, David?"
"The boy who brings the milk--he had the squirrel this morning. He
said it was not asleep. It was--dead."
"It means that the squirrel, the real squirrel under the fur, has gone
away, David."
"Where?"
"To a far country, perhaps."
"Will he come back?"
"No."
"Did he want to go?"
"We'll hope so."
"But he left his--his fur coat behind him. Didn't he need--that?"
"No, or he'd have taken it with him."
David had fallen silent at this. He had remained strangely silent indeed
for some days; then, out in the woods with his father one morning, he
gave a joyous shout. He was standing by the ice-covered brook, and
looking at a little black hole through which the hurrying water could be
plainly seen.
"Daddy, oh, daddy, I know now how it is, about being--dead."
"Why--David!"
"It's like the water in the brook, you know; THAT'S going to a far
country, and it isn't coming back. And it leaves its little cold ice-coat
behind it just as the squirrel did, too. It does n't need it. It can go
without it. Don't you see? And it's singing--listen!--it's singing as it
goes. It WANTS to go!"

"Yes, David." And David's father had sighed with relief that his son
had found his own explanation of the mystery, and one that satisfied.
Later, in his books, David found death again. It was a man, this time.
The boy had looked up with startled eyes.
"Do people, real people, like you and me, be dead, father? Do they go
to a far country?
"Yes, son in time--to a far country ruled over by a great and good King
they tell us.
David's father had trembled as he said it, and had waited fearfully for
the result. But David had only smiled happily as he answered:
"But they go singing, father, like the little brook. You know I heard it!"
And there the matter had ended. David was ten now, and not yet for
him did death spell terror. Because of this David's father was relieved;
and yet--still because of this--he was afraid.
"David," he said gently. "Listen to me."
The boy turned with a long sigh.
"Yes, father."
"We must go away. Out in the great world there are men and women
and children waiting for you. You've a beautiful work to do; and one
can't do one's work on a mountain-top."
"Why not? I like it here, and I've always been here."
"Not always, David; six years. You were four when I brought you here.
You don't remember, perhaps."
David shook his head. His eyes were again dreamily fixed on the sky.
"I think I'd like it--to go--if I could sail away on that little cloud-boat up

there," he murmured.
The man sighed and shook his head.
"We can't go on cloud-boats. We must walk, David, for a way--and we
must go soon--soon," he added feverishly. "I must get you back--back
among friends, before--"
He rose unsteadily, and tried to walk erect. His limbs shook, and the
blood throbbed at his temples. He was appalled at his weakness. With a
fierceness born of his terror he turned sharply to the boy at his side.
"David, we've got to go!