The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry
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how he had strayed so far from seats of education and learning.
And then I took a few more steps and saw a vine-covered cottage near the small stream. And in a little grassy glade I saw May Martha Mangum plucking wild flowers.
She straightened up and looked at me. For the first time since I knew her I saw her face — which was the color of the white keys of a new piano — turn pink. I walked toward her without a word. She let the gathered flowers trickle slowly from her hand to the grass.
“I knew you would come, Jim,” she said clearly. “Father wouldn’t let me write, but I knew you would come.”
What followed you may guess — there was my wagon and team just across the river.
I’ve often wondered what good too much education is to a man if he can’t use it for himself. If all the benefits of it are to go to others, where does it come in?
For May Martha Mangum abides with me. There is an eight-room house in a live-oak grove, and a piano with an automatic player, and a good start toward the three thousand head of cattle is under fence.
And when I ride home at night my pipe and slippers are put away in places where they cannot be found.
But who cares for that? Who cares — who cares?
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