Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

my standing to breakfast” and already could see bacon & eggs in my minds [sic] eye. To get to the house, I had to cross a little foot bridge over a stream – midway, I met the farmer who had come to meet me. Instead of the welcome I expected, I saw he was angry at something, for he eyed my outstretched hand. 

“You are trying to spoil my son” he said, standing directly in the path to bar my way.

“Why, what do you mean?” I asked in astonishment.

“You, or your wife, taught him to play games – She even taught him to play Indian” – 

It then flashed thru my mind, that his young boy (about 7 or 8) had visited us a short while before – 

“But what is wrong about that? (As we talked, we started walking toward the house, he backwards, facing me.

“I won’t have him pretending to be someone else” he replied “You must never see him again” Then it dawned on me that he belonged to some strict religious sect, that believed it not only was wrong to play games, but worst of all was to pretend to be someone other than he was. (“acting” in other words)

Hoping to appease him I apologized saying “I am sorry, we did not know it was against your belief; and I assure you it will not happen again” – then as he said nothing I put out my hand, and said “won’t you shake hands on it?”