ADVENTURES IN 
COMRADESHIP 
(Continued from page 615 ) 
I didn t matter much. Apportioning 
the love of a child, between parents, is 
a delicate adjustment. Please remem¬ 
ber Florida. We were away an entire 
month. Then the farm. Come, come, 
Mother . . . what is it NOW?” 
“What I wanted to say was—” and 
she hesitated, embarrassed—“there IS 
a change. Sonnyboy is losing his boy¬ 
ishness, his desire for the very things 
you were teaching him. He is becom¬ 
ing a sophisticated man almost over 
night. Every night this week he has 
wanted to remain up until eleven. He’s 
dance mad! I may be just a silly, old- 
fashioned mother, but I would rather 
not see him wanting to pass his time 
with these bobbed-hair flappers. There 
is the girl with dark hair—much older 
than Son—they are always together. 
She is undesirable — an unpleasant 
type. Son takes her on boat trips and 
they dance, dance, dance. In the upper 
dance room, I think they serve intox¬ 
icating liquors . . . the youngsters do 
not drink ... but it’s a harmful in¬ 
fluence. Someone has an automobile 
for two hours . . . they all go to ’Scon- 
set. It isn’t nice. It isn’t my idea of 
the boy’s vacation—at all!” 
I rubbed my chin in the moonlight 
and squirmed and went through all the 
mental hazards of the conventional 
head of a household. As children go 
up, Fathers and Mothers gain unex¬ 
pected perspectives of their responsibil¬ 
ity. And the years pass with such 
terribly insidious certainty. 
“Mother,” I said, “Mother, times 
change; conditions change. This is a 
very old story. The young folks of 
this generation are no more frivolous 
than they were in your youth — and 
mine. They just SEEM so. Let the 
boy dance. Let him pass a few hours 
with the little frizz-haired brunette. 
It’s just NOW—and life. Put your 
thumb down and you make it all the 
worse. Youth must be Youth. We 
can’t ask Sonnyboy to sit in his room 
reading schoolbooks, while there is 
moonlight and romance all around him. 
It wouldn’t be quite fair, now would it?- 
Nor can we ask him to spend all his 
ife fishing and hunting, and baiting 
looks and frying bacon over a wood 
ire. This isn’t that sort of country. 
Nantucket has passed as a place to fish, 
ie might get a whale a thousand miles 
>ut, but what would we do with one if 
le harpooned it? And a day spent on 
>ne of those professional fishing 
schooners would make him sea-sick for 
ill eternity. For this two weeks, allow 
dE to play my game of golf, and per- 
nit Son to have his fling at Society. 
We don’t want to make a Maine Guide 
of him—or a Naturalist.” 
But this flippant talk did not ring 
true, even with me. I could sense what 
she was trying to tell me. She was 
indeed fearful that the comradeship 
which her own love and initiative had 
started, was on the wane. I was drift¬ 
ing back into my own selfish ways. 
Golf is insidiously attractive. I had 
been playing more and more of late. 
Three times a week, at home, I had 
entered contests. And I was getting- 
back my old form. I had seen less of 
Sonnyboy of late. And now came the 
two weeks at dear old Nantucket, with 
Mother earning a well-earned vacation 
of her own. The three of us were 
chums on this trip. Yes ... I confess 
it . . . the lure of Golf returned. There 
had been exciting foursomes, morning 
and afternoon. I had seen Sonnyboy 
at breakfasts and dinners only. But 
what of it? Nantucket was Youth’s 
stronghold. 
“I didn’t mean to tell you,” Mother 
half whispered, “I found a package of 
cigarettes in Son’s coat pocket yester¬ 
day. It has come to THAT.” 
It was not until months afterward 
that I found Sonnyboy had not smoked. 
The little silver-covered packet had 
been the property of the bobbed-hair 
brunette, and he had smuggled them 
into his pocket in a pinch, when her 
mother was on the trail. But he had 
preferred to assume guilt—rather than 
tell the—the truth. It had been true 
“sportsmanship.” 
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But Mother was there opposite me, 
in the silver of the Nantucket moon¬ 
light. She seemed very young herself, 
and fair, to be the mother of that 
sturdy youth out on the dance floor, 
whose voice was just beginning to 
change, whose upper lip was feathered 
with suspicious down, and who had 
made the veteran Chip gasp, because of 
his adept hand at trout fishing in a Mil¬ 
ford stream. She had been very, very 
right ONCE—was she right again? 
This prelude to our ultimate day out¬ 
side the jetties and our stormy seance 
for perch at Sacacha Pond, and our re¬ 
discoveries of the romance of the home 
of the ancient whalers, is given with no 
apology. It is merely a human part of 
this story we have to tell. To omit the 
jazz and the bobbed hair, even in an 
outdoor journal, would be to strip our 
aggregate adventure of its true moral. 
We must go the entire way or not at 
all. You must bear with me to this 
extent. 
And this was Mother’s way of put¬ 
ting it, out there in the moonlight: 
“This thing you call ‘sportsmanship’ 
—love of the woods and the rivers and 
the lakes and the hills, and the open 
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