"To make a long story short, I fell in with some lads of my own
way of thinking, and we determined to have a smoke. We gathered
sweet fern and dried it, and rolled cigars for ourselves; odd-
looking things they were, but we were vastly proud of them. When
all was ready, we chose a dry, warm spot behind a dyke (for it was
the fall of the year, and the days growing cold), and there we
lighted our cigars and fell to work, puffing away in mighty fine
style. Well, sir, they were horrible things, as you may well
imagine; not one of us, I'll go bail, liked them in his heart, but
we all pretended our best, and praised the cigars, and said what a
fine thing it was to smoke, and thought ourselves men, as sure as
if we had felt our beards pushing.

"By-and-by--I have the feeling of it still, when I think of it--I
chanced to look up, and saw my father standing over the top of the
dyke, looking down on us. The other boys, catching sight of my
face, lifted their eyes and saw him, too; and there was a pretty
moment. He said never a word for some time; no more did we. At
last, 'What are you smoking, boys?' he asked, speaking in his
usual even voice; yet I did not like the sound of it, somehow.

"So we told him, sweet fern; but he shook his head at that. 'That
is poor stuff, indeed,' he said. 'Now, if you must smoke, here is
something worth your while. Take these, Thomas, and share them
with your friends; they are genuine, and I hope you may enjoy
them.'

"With that he took a parcel of cigars from his pocket, and handed
them to me; then bowed to us all very grand, and marched off,
never looking behind him.