"Where are you going, father?"

"There, where I am going, there are only men."

"I want to go with you."

The father seemed to hesitate, and then to decide:

"After all, too early is better than too late. Put on your hat. I shall
take you." He took him to the hairdresser.

"I am going to have my hair cut. How do you feel about it?"

"I want to do like men."

The child was set upon a stool where, in the white combing-cloth, with
his curly hair, he resembled an angel done by an Italian Primitive. For
an instant the father thought himself a barbarian, and the barber
hesitated, scissors in air, as before a crime. They exchanged glances;
then the father stiffened and gave the order. The beautiful curls fell.

But now it became necessary to return home; and when his mother saw him,
she wept.

"I am a man," the child announced, peremptorily.

He was indeed to be a man, but he was to remain for a long time also a
mischievous boy--nearly, in fact, until the end.