"What do you want to be?" Labarta asked his godson. His mother's supplicating glance seemed desperately to implore the little fellow: "Say Archbishop, my king." For the good seora, her son could not make his dbut in any other way than in a church career. The notary always used to speak very positively from his own viewpoint, without consulting the interested party. He would be an eminent jurisconsult; thousands of dollars were going to roll toward him as though they were pennies; he was going to figure in university solemnities in a cloak of crimson satin and an academic cap announcing from its multiple sides the tasseled glory of the doctorate. The students in his lecture-room would listen to him most respectfully. Who knew what the government of his country might not have in store for him. . . ! Ulysses interrupted these images of future grandeur: "I want to be a captain." The poet approved. He felt the unreflective enthusiasm which all pacific and sedentary beings have for the plume and the sword. At the mere sight of a uniform his soul always thrilled with the amorous tenderness of a child's nurse when she finds herself courted by a soldier. "Fine!" said.
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