I
couldn't think of being a skunk--running away--and I couldn't stay. I
wasn't intended to stay. Some men are intended to work and take care
of children and serve women perhaps but others have to keep trying for
a vague something all their lives--like me trying for a tone on a
violin. If they don't get it it doesn't matter, they have to keep
trying.
"My wife used to say I'd get tired of it. No woman ever really
understands a man caring for anything except herself. I knocked that
out of her."
The little man looked up at McGregor. "Do you think I'm a skunk?" he
asked.
McGregor looked at him gravely. "I don't know," he said. "Go on and
tell me about the children."
"I said they were the last things to cling to. They are. We used to
have religion. But that's pretty well gone now--the old kind. Now men
think about children, I mean a certain kind of men--the ones that have
work they want to get on with. Children and work are the only things
that kind care about. If they have a sentiment about women it's only
about their own--the one they have in the house with them. They want
to keep that one finer than they are themselves. So they work the
other feeling out on the paid women.
"Women fuss about men loving children. Much they care. It's only a
plan for demanding adulation for themselves that they don't earn.
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