There is no hour of the day so hushed and beautiful as
the early morning, when the day is young, fresh from the
hand of God. It is a new page, clean and white and pure,
and the angel is saying unto us "Write!" and none there
be who may refuse to obey. It may be gracious deeds and
kindly words that we write upon it in letters of gold,
or it may be that we blot and blur it with evil thoughts
and stain it with unworthy actions, but write we must!
The demon of discontent laid hold on Tom that morning as
he worked in the hayfield. New forces were at work in
the boy's heart, forces mighty for good or evil.
A great disgust for his surrounding filled him. He could
see from where he worked the big stone house, bare and
gray. It was a place to eat in, a place to sleep in, the
same as a prison. He had never known any real enjoyment
there. He knew it would all be his some day, and he tried
to feel the pride of possession, but he could not--he
hated it.
He saw around him everywhere the abundance of harvest--the
grain that meant money. Money! It was the greatest thing
in the world. He had been taught to chase after it--to
grasp it--then hide it, and chase again after more. His
father put money in the bank every year, and never saw
it again. When money was banked it had fulfilled its
highest mission. Then they drew that wonderful thing
called interest, money without work--and banked it--Oh,
it was a great game!
It was the first glimmerings of manhood that was stirring
in Tom's heart that morning, the new independence, the
new individualism.
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