One day I was going to town and asked him for money to buy an
algebra. "What is an algebra?" He had never heard of an algebra,
and couldn't see why I needed one; he refused the money, though I
coaxed and Mother pleaded with him. I had left the house and had
got as far as the big hill up there by the pennyroyal rock, when he
halloed to me that I might get the algebra--Mother had evidently
been instrumental in bringing him to terms. But my blood was up by
this time, and as I trudged along to the village I determined to
wait until I could earn the money myself for the algebra, and some
other books I coveted. I boiled sap and made maple-sugar, and the
books were all the sweeter by reason of the maple-sugar money.

When I wanted help, as I did two or three times later, on a pinch.
Father refused me; and, as it turned out, I was the only one of his
children that could or would help him when the pinch came--a curious
retribution, but one that gave me pleasure and him no pain. I was
better unhelped, as it proved, and better for all I could help him.
But he was a loving father all the same. He couldn't understand my
needs, but love outweighs understanding.

He did not like my tendency to books; he was afraid, as I learned
later, that I would become a Methodist minister--his pet aversion.
He never had much faith in me--less than in any of his children; he
doubted if I would ever amount to anything. He saw that I was an
odd one, and had tendencies and tastes that he did not sympathize
with. He never alluded to my literary work; apparently left it out
of his estimate of me. My aims and aspirations were a sealed book
to him, as his peculiar religious experiences were to me, yet I
reckon it was the same leaven working in us both.