He began to ask if his father were right. Wasn't a man a double fool who
had brains and refused to use them?

An idiot could pick cotton when the bag was fastened on his back. All he
needed was one hand. All he had to do was to bend, hour after hour, day
after day, until it became the habit of life and the ache stopped.

He could see this now, for himself. He smiled at the quiet wisdom of his
father. He certainly knew how to manage boys. He must acknowledge that.
He was quiet and considerate about it, too. He didn't dictate. He only
suggested things for consideration and choice. It was easy to meet the
views of that kind of a father. He treated a boy with the dignity of a
man.

When the cotton was weighed, the Boy faced his father:

"I've thought it all over, sir, and I'd like to go back to school."

"All right, my son, you can return in the morning."

He made no comment. He indulged in no smile at the Boy's expense. He
received his decision with the serious dignity of a judge of the
Supreme Court of Life.

The rebellion ended for all time. Teachers and schools took on a new
meaning. A lesson was no longer a hard task set by a heartless fool who
had been accidentally placed in a position of power. School meant the
training of his mind for a higher and more useful life.

Progress now was steady. The next year a new teacher came, a real