than made a carpenter.

As the turn came to his own plate, Keith tried to catch his mother's eye
with a signalled appeal to put in as little as possible, but she was
talking to her husband and not noticing the boy at all. And so, at last,
he found himself confronted with a plate filled to the brim.

The first few spoonfuls went down without much resistance, chiefly
because he confined himself to the fluid part of the soup. Then it
seemed of a sudden as if one more mouthful would choke him, and his
eating became a mere dallying with his spoon.

"Go on and finish your soup," the father urged sternly.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I have eaten all I can."

"That does not matter," rejoined his father. "One must always finish
what is on one's plate."

"But I don't like it," Keith blurted out in a moment of
desperation--which was unfortunate.

"Children have no likings of their own," said the father, putting down
his spoon. "They must like what their parents give them. And you will
finish that soup--if I have to feed you myself to make you do it."