"I don't see
what does make father and mother so particular." Then, entering the
parlor, he took the first book that came to hand from the table, and,
taking a seat very far from the light, looked exceedingly unamiable.
His father laid aside the paper, and without seeming to notice Harry's
mood, said pleasantly, "I wonder if my son feels himself too old for a
story; if not I have one to tell him which might well be named, 'Only
This Once.'" The book was returned to the table; but Harry still kept
thinking of what the boys would say when Jim told an exaggerated story,
and his countenance remained unchanged.
"When I was about your age, Harry," began his father, "we lived next
door to Mr. Allen, a very wealthy gentleman, who had one son. As Frank
was a good-natured, merry boy, and had his two beautiful ponies, several
dogs, and a large playground, he soon made friends.
"Many an afternoon did we spend together, riding the ponies, or playing
ball on the playground, and one summer afternoon in particular, I never
expect to forget, for it seems to me now, looking back upon it, as the
turning point of Frank's life; but we little thought of such a thing at
the time.
"It was a very warm afternoon; and, becoming tired of playing ball, we
had stopped to rest on the piazza, when Frank proposed that we should
take the ponies to a plank road a few miles from the house, and race
them.
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