wouldn't try to master me nor to make me feel how small I was.  I'd
dare to ask him things and know that he felt awkward about them,
too.  And I would find, I know I would, that he had hit his shin
just on those very stumps that had hit me.  We'd talk of men a lot,
the kind they call the great.  I would not find him scornful.  Yet
boys that he knew in New Salem would somehow appear larger in
their souls, than some of these that I had called the great.  His
wise eyes saw qualities that weighed more than smartness.  Yes, we
would sit down where the bank sloped gently to the quiet stream
and glance at the picture of our people, the negroes being
lynched, the miners' civil war, labor's hold ups, employers'
ruthlessness, the subordination of humanity to industry,--

THE END 

End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Letters of Franklin K.  Lane