"It must be very bad," said Everychild.

"I've been so I was afraid to move, knowing she would complain. I've
sat for hours studying her, trying to understand her. I used to think
the fault was all mine."

"It does make you feel that way, doesn't it?" said Everychild. "And
sometimes I've thought fathers were as bad as mothers about making you
feel so."

Tom lapsed into a dreamy mood. "Fathers . . . I don't remember much
about my father," he said. "But he used to be uncomfortable about the
house the same as me. The things she says to me--they come easy to her
now, because she learned to say them long ago, to my father. He
couldn't have a friend in to see him. It was always: 'Why don't they
go home for their meals?' or 'Why don't they track dirt into their own
houses?' or 'Why don't they fill their own curtains with tobacco
smoke?' You know how they talk. And he quit bringing his friends
home. He stayed away more and more himself. I've not seen him now for
years."

"I'm not sure I ever heard of your father," said Everychild.

"You wouldn't have heard of him. Mother always made so much noise that
you only heard of her. You wouldn't have overlooked _her_, with her
finding fault all the time, and pretending not to be appreciated at
home. She was always pitied by the neighbors, who knew only her side
of the story. Oh, everybody's heard of Old Mother Hubbard. But who
ever heard of Old Father Hubbard? She drove him away with her precise