Though patient and loving with his family, Clark was very firm, and Marty at times had to bite her tongue when she felt that Clark was expecting a bit much for their tender years. She would have coddled them; Clark would not, for he had a strong conviction that what was learned through discipline in early years would not have to be learned through more painful lessons later on.

It had happened just that morning. Marty had been bustling about the kitchen, putting breakfast on. Young Clare was in the sitting room, playing with his toy soldiers.

"Did ya get the wood box filled?" she asked absently, her mind busy with her preparations. It was one of the boy's chores for the morning; to be done BEFORE playin'.

"Uh…yes, Ma," was the reply.

Later, when the family was still seated at the table, Marty pushed back her chair.

"I best be putting more wood in thet stove. It's wash day." Clark smiled at her from across the table. He knew how she felt about wash day. Marty rose slowly from the table, her cumbersome belly slowing her movements. Neither of them noticed the furtive glances Clare was sending toward the shed.

"Why, Clare Davis! This wood box is nearly empty!" Marty's voice came from the shed. She came to the door, eyes on her son. The boy had the grace to look ashamed.

"I'll do it right now, Ma." He jumped up from his chair. Clark looked from one to the other with a frown.

"Hold on a mite, there." He looked to his wife questioningly. Marty felt a bit sorry for Clare, who was now shifting back and forth on his feet, his eyes wide with anxiety. However, she met Clark's gaze.

"When I asked Clare earlier if he'd filled the wood box before playin', he told me he'd done it."
Her eyes pleaded with Clark to give the boy a second chance.

Clark turned to his son, his stern gaze causing the boy to look down at his plate.

"Ya lied to yer ma, boy? An' kept on playin'?" Clare looked up quickly.

"I'll do it right now, Pa!" Clark held up his hand.

"First, me an' you need to have a talk. Ya go on to yer room…right now." Blinking back tears, the boy obeyed. Clark finished drinking his coffee and rose from the table.

"I'm afeared thet thet boy is about to learn a lesson about lyin'," he stated while walking toward the bedroom. Marty glanced at Missy, who had tears in her eyes as well.

"Come, Missy. You and me will go on out and check on the tomatoes and peas. They should be ready any time now fer pickin'." She put her arm around the small girl. "It's ok….yer brother needs to learn about lyin', just like you did." Missy sniffed and nodded, following Marty out the door.

Clark entered the bedroom to find his son sitting forlornly on the bed, picking at the quilt. He sat next to the boy, turning his body so that they faced each other.

"Now. I want ya to tell me what happened this mornin'."

"M-ma asked me if I filled the wood box, an'….an' I told her I did….but I didn't."

"Why?" Clark wanted Clare to understand exactly what he had done, and why it was wrong.

"I—I wanted to keep playin'." His father's look was very stern.

"Thet is called lyin'. When ya tell a person ya did somethin', when ya really didn't, it's lyin'. Ya remember when Missy lied to me about pickin' the apples thet weren't ripe?" Tears were falling now. The boy clearly remembered how much trouble his sister had been in with Pa. She'd had a hard time sittin' at the supper table that night.

"Ye—yes, sir. I'm sorry, Pa!" Clark pulled the boy up to stand.

"I'm afeared thet sayin' sorry ain't gonna just fix it, son. I want ya to take down yer britches." Clare looked up, eyes wide.

"Please, Pa!" The big man shook his head, motioning for the boy to obey. Sniffling, Clare slowly undid his suspenders and pulled his trousers to his knees. This was awful…his bare behind could feel the cool air in the room. He didn't have much time to think about it, however, as he was quickly pulled across his Pa's knee.

"Tell me why I'm gonna wallop yer behind, young man."

"Cuz…cuz I told a lie to Ma!" the boy wailed as he squirmed. Satisfied that Clare understood his wrong, Clark brought his big, calloused hand down firmly on the small bottom. The little boy squealed.

"Owwww! I'm sorry, Pa! I'm sorry!" Clark didn't reply, just set himself to the task before him. The hard smacks echoed in the small room, as did the cries of his son. When he felt the lesson had been truly learned, he stood Clare to his feet. Sobbing, the boy's hands immediately went to his red bottom, rubbing fiercely as he jumped up and down. Clark stood and pulled the wooden desk chair to face the corner of the room.

"Now ya set yer bare bottom down on this seat and think about why ya got a spankin'." Clare went, letting out a yelp when his sore behind landed on the hard chair. He squirmed and tried to rub, still hiccupping with sobs. Clark exited the room, shutting the door behind him. He looked up to see his wife and his daughter coming inside from the garden. Missy was solemn.

"Did Clare get a spankin', Pa?"

"Yep, he sure did, youngun. I don't think he'll be lyin' agin any time soon." The big man reached for his hat. "I'll be back in a few minutes ta talk to 'im." He strode to the door, stopping to run his finger down his daughter's soft cheek.

"He'll live, Missy. Don't feel too sorry fer 'im."

Clark came in from the yard after about ten minutes. He paused to pull Marty into a hug and kissed her cheek.

"We'll be right out. I'm right sorry thet the day had to start like this. But the boy has to learn." He strode to the bedroom.

Clare heard his father enter the room as he remained obediently in the chair, facing the wall. He'd already decided to NEVER lie to Ma or Pa again. His bottom didn't hurt quite so much now, but it still stung somethin' fierce. Clark sat on the bed and regarded the back of his son's head.

"Ya kin pull up yer trousers now, Clare," he said quietly. The little boy quickly stood and fixed his clothing, not meeting his Pa's eyes. When he'd finished, he stood with his eyes on the floor. It was kind of embarrassing to get a spankin' with his britches down. Pa had never done that before. And it shore hurt a lot more, too.

"Come'ere, Son." Clare looked up to see Pa's arms open wide. With a sob, he ran into them.

"I'm sorry, Pa!" He reveled in the feeling of his pa's strong arms as he buried his face in the checkered shirt. Pa smelled like sweat and horses, and Clare felt safe and secure in his embrace. Clark hugged the boy tightly, talking softly as he did so.

"I forgive ya, boy. I'm right sad thet I had to punish ya as a start to the day. But lyin'…yer ma and I can't abide. It's real serious…thet's why I made ya pull yer britches down… to make sure ya remember the lesson. Did ya learn somethin', Son?"

"Yes, sir. I won't never lie t'ya or Ma agin. EVER." Clark smiled.

"I'm right glad to hear thet. I don't enjoy givin' spankin's eny more then you like gettin' 'em. Now, yer ma was the one ya lied to, so I want ya to apologize to her as soon as we're done here."

"Yes, sir." Clare stayed in his father's lap for a few minutes longer, neither one of them talking. It felt good to be forgiven and know that Pa loved him. Clark gently set the boy away from him and stood.

"Well, now. We'd best get to the barn." They walked to the kitchen, and Clare stopped short at the sight of his ma. He flew into her arms.

"I'm real sorry, Ma. I won't ever lie t'ya agin," he promised, his voice quivering a bit. Marty held him close.

"Thank ya, Son. I sure hope not."