Many Parts 

Remnants of an Autobiography by Charles Hoy Fort 





Chapters One to Three 

[Pages 1 to 11 are missing.] 



thought that Law School was built for a large number of serious-looking 
young men, who left with still more serious-looking books under their arms, 
and then went over to the "Cottage". But it wasn't; it was built with steps 
for us to play on and stone blocks for us to jump from. All along were 
houses built with windows, not to look from, but for us to climb to. Gates 
for us to swing on, hydrants for us to leap over, fences and stoops for us 
to hide behind. Why things were could be of no interest to us. For we know: 
everything was for us. 

We a mile away from everything familiar: the witch and the crazy man and the 
two old maids. Wondering what we should do to be acquainted. Wondering which 
families had boys in them. Interested in one family, which had a doctor and 
a dress-reform advocate in it. Advocate coming out in an awful, old rig; 
that was more dress-reform. We learned something new every day. And across 
the street was a family even more interesting. For it had not only a General 
but an Irish setter in it. We could never be so important as all that, but 
some day we might be a Colonel and own a pug. And there were little boys up 
and down the street; but none of them was friendly. We taking a sleigh away 
from a little girl, just to be acquainted. Trouble. Pushing another little 
girl into a snow pile; perhaps she'd speak to us. More trouble. Knocking a 
little boy's hat off; that might lead to acquaintance. Little boy beating us 
fearfully. Oh, we'd just have to go away and be a hermit somewhere! 

But allowed to play in the street very little. Spending a good deal of the 
time in the top floor, which had been fitted up with swings and a see-saw 
for us. Hurrying home from school, avoiding bad, little boys, going to the 
park every sunny afternoon with Katie Rooley, the little kind in the baby 
carriage, we on one side and the other kid on the other side. Collecting 
pebbles from the gravel walks and listening to the gossip of a dozen nurse 
girls all in a row. Then walking through the grass on our way home to brush 
the dust from our shoes, looking creditable to any household, as Mrs. Lawson 
kept us looking. 

And in the yard we played, interested in the plants, which were thinking, 
feeling, little creatures in the world that Mrs. Lawson lived in and had us, 
too, live in. Coming home from School in an Autumn afternoon. Piles of 
flower pots and window gardens scattered around. Mrs. Lawson calling for us 
to help for all we were worth; for Jack Frost was coming. Digging and 
transplanting for all we were worth, helping to get our friends into the 
house before Jack Frost could catch them. Speaking to geraniums, telling 
them to have no fear, for we were taking them to a place where they'd be 
safe all Summer.(1) Of course they could not understand us, you know; but at 
the same time, they could understand us. Then great excitement! Mrs. Lawson 
telling us that Jack Frost was only a mile away. All four of us working 
desperately, getting all the plants in, just as Jack Frost peeked around the 
church steeple. All but the sunflower stalks, this discriminating worrying 
us so that we'd dig up at least one monster of a sun flower, and smuggle it 
to the top floor to save it too. 

Taking turns reading aloud with Mrs. Lawson every afternoon. The Old Boy 
looking in through the window now and then, but seldom really getting in, 
for we, too, would seize a broom to help drive him away. We'd rather read 
than climb fences except, of course, when we really had to climb fences. But 
arithmetic! It seems fixed in our mind that the multiplication table did not 
extend beyond twelve times twelve; thirteen times anything was something 
else. A teacher told us to multiply sixty by 



[Pages 14 and 15 are missing.] 



to shoot wads of paper around the congregation; a bald head would count 
fifteen; ears, ten, and so on. It was a very amusing, little game. But we 
almost liked Sunday school, especially as there were some very good books in 
the library. Religion as an emotion, was strong in us, though, quite as 
strong, was a resisting of this emotion. Sometimes, all that wanted to be 
Christians were called upon to raise their hands. A throbbing and an urging 
would almost overcome us with a seeing of beauty in what we were called upon 
to be. But our hand would never go up, as if a feeling of sternness withheld 
us from what seemed to us an indecent advertising of feeling. 

And in the kitchen we spent a good deal of time, except in the reign of 
Ella, who would chase us into the street, hopping the length of the house on 
one foot, waving a slipper. Then came Katie, which made two Katies in the 
house. Mrs. Lawson thought this over, and decided that one should have 
another name. She was pleased with "Myrtle". And you should have seen big, 
fat Katie turn purple with indignation when called "Myrtle". Each Katie 
admitted that two Katies made confusion, but each insisted that the other 
was Myrtle, so that Mrs. Lawson would call, "Myrtle! Myr-tle! Myr-tell!" and 
no one would answer. 

But we liked to peel apples, trying to peel as well as Katie could, making 
long spirals, throwing them over a left shoulder for good luck. Turning the 
ice cream freezer, getting what was left on the dasher for our work. Baking 
bits of dough, which, if made to look remotely like a man or a cat, seemed 
different. They were accomplished girls in our kitchen; they spoke Latin 
fluently, which awed us a good deal. But then we picked up a little Latin 
ourself, learning that some Latin words are much like English words. We 
might have picked up a good deal of interesting gossip, were it not that our 
conceit made us cry that we, too, understood. The cook would say, "Isery 
yourery 



[Page 17 is missing.] 



Then the boy next door told us that there is no Santa Claus; he had 
pretended to sleep, and had seen his father arrange gifts around him. We had 
never thought to doubt Santa Claus before, but had a feeling that, doubt as 
we might, the boy was right. Then torments like religious unrest. Kind, 
jolly, old Santa Claus coming down chimneys was too beautiful to give up. 
But no one could possibly come down our chimney. Then the reindeers, 
Prancer, Dancer, and all the rest, skimming from roof to roof. We could not 
give it up; it was too beautiful. But we had to; reindeers can not skim from 
roof to roof. 

Oh, don't take from us any more of our beliefs! Perhaps heaven and the 
angels, too, were only myths. But, though we had never seen an angel, we 
knew the Old Boy was real, for we had seen him. We were not quite sure just 
when, but one, cold gray day, he had looked in through the window, and then, 
St. Dunstan had caught and held his nose in red hot pinchers. Heaven and 
angels were true: we were sure, because the sky was so blue. Looking down, 
knowing whenever we were untruthful, because everytime we told a white lie a 
little white mark appeared on a finger nail. We often desponded; our finger 
nails were full of them. And for worse lies, a canker would appear upon our 
tongue. 

Looking down, seeing everything we did except when we went into a dark room 
and closed the windows before eating anything stolen. 

And there, too, was Conscience. Sometimes at night, may be as late as ten 
o'clock, Mrs. Lawson would look up and see us stepping on our feet in the 
door way. She'd say, "Why, I thought you were asleep hours ago." 

We'd say, "Conscience is pricking me." Confessing some fearful crime. 
Faltering and writhing, but feeling that every word lessened the burden. 
Mrs. Lawson taking us in her arms, softly singing tearful, penitent us to 
sleep with the psalm about green pastures. 



[Pages 19 and 20 are missing.] 



not even picking out offenders, sobbing and shouting, loyalty flaming in us, 
fighting for our own. These seizures or rags were common with us. On our way 
home from school, older boys would tease us, just to see us run frantically 
around the street searching for cobble stones to throw. But there was always 
an underlying self control, for we'd hurl a cobble stone awry, if an enemy 
should be too near. It was a pose, delighting us to show how awful we were. 
Only causing entertainment, but thinking we were striking with terror. And 
during recess, the older boys would rally with the smaller boys. Other, 
small boys running away, but we standing where we were, in our sobbing, 
hysterical rage, with its underlying posing. Floundering in the snow, 
snowballs rattling against our face, handfuls of slush thrown down our neck. 
Staggering and fighting, calling to the other, small boys, "Come back, ye 
cowards!" Very much liking the "ye"; it seemed as if right out of a story 
book. Crying things we had read, our mind filled with much reading. But it 
was not courage; it was our joy in the picturesque, we seeing gallantry and 
romance in our defiance. And we had a mania to fight with larger boys, 
because of the glory that would come to us if we should triumph. There were 
boys of our own size that we were afraid of, but any larger boy bullying or 
boasting would possess us with our mania, and we fought continually on the 
way home from school. Often beaten, but not caring; a larger boy had done it 
and there was no disgrace. And often winning, for we were strong and chunky. 
Then the cries from the others would be exalting music, and we'd tingle as 
we'd see some other boy glad to carry our books home for us. Then we'd want 
to be chivalrous and forgiving the next day, offering the enemy candy, 
encouraging no references to our victory, though we longed for references 
all day long, walking home with the enemy to help him if anyone should taunt 
him. 



[Page 22 is missing.] 



wings. Catching a wasp and learning our first truth in natural history. 
Holding him by the head, and starting to laugh at him, because then he could 
not bite us. Only starting; then pained to learn that wasps back up to 
sting. Holding our breath for a while, and then running into the house to 
tell everyone our astonishing discovery that there are creatures with the 
habits of a coal cart. A new world over there in the club grounds; there 
were grasshoppers in the lawn, a nest of big, black ants in the hollow, pear 
tree, and in a corner lurked a red-legged spider with a green body as large 
as a hen's egg. We remember him very well, though of course there never has 
been such a spider. But there was a new world, and we felt a necessity for 
strange inhabitants and horrible creatures in it. No snakes and no dragons; 
so with spiders we created the elements of horror. Wanting to know all about 
everything; exposing our ears to "darning needles" as we called dragon 
flies, feeling that it is untrue that they sew up little boys' ears. Digging 
unsightly holes in the club grounds embankment, not knowing why, but feeling 
that if we should dig down a foot, we should learn something. Digging down 
two feet would be twice as interesting; picturing ourself digging to the 
very center of the earth. Unearthing bits of china such as you will find in 
all filled-in ground. Having an impression that we had dug down to China, 
not meaning a pun, not knowing really what we did mean, except that China 
was somewhere under our feet. We were so much interested in geography that 
it seemed not a study but a pleasure, but still we had a good many 
impressions foreign to facts. North America was a stern, rugged creature 
with a head and a long bill; South America was feminine, gentle and softly 
rounded; Asia was flat and light yellow. 

But Mrs. Lawson would call us from the digging to tell us that we were 
making extra work for some poor man with a large 



[Pages 24 to 27 are missing.] 



bare tree; seeing a bunch of straw and horse hair. An old nest. We climbed 
to it. Putting the old nest in our pocket; birds had built it; once birds 
had lived in it. But we wanted a nest with eggs in it; had thought that out 
in the real country, there were nests in almost every tree. Then running 
from tree to tree, searching for a nest with eggs in it. Splashing mud over 
ourself; not seeing the mud in our excitement. Then someone came to us, and 
led us back to the hotel, where our grandfather, though kind, reproached us, 
and feared that we should never be a good, business man. We wanted to be a 
good, business man; in our atmosphere, we had a belief that doctors, 
lawyers, all in other callings are lower int he scale of importance than 
those that sell groceries though only wholesale of course. We expected to be 
a partner some day, as They had become, or, even better, to travel for the 
firm. But all around were hintings and whisperings of something that seemed 
wondrous and better and meant for us. We heard and felt in that first 
orchard and in our remembrance of the orchard. Strange things were told us 
in every picture of a lake or a bit of meadow land. We should not have 
expressed the heresy, but felt that there was some kind of a life higher 
than that of a dealer in groceries. Though we knew not quite what, there was 
something that we wanted in things that have nothing to do with cities and 
good, business men. 





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1. "Summer" is written, but "Winter" was undoubtedly intended. 





Chapter Four 


Someone discovered that our eyesight was poor. It was explained that we had 
injured our eyes with too much reading. This was not true, but then it seems 
more creditable to injure eyes or lose a leg in an accident than to be born 
with defects. So They sent us to have our eyes examined. An arrangement like 
automobile goggles on our eyes; we looking at large letters and small 
letters astonishingly black and clear. We were a spectacle-wearing boy and 
despised ourself, for the boys that we knew that wore spectacles seemed 
generally weak and not the kind that our general strength made us of. We 
told ourself that we should wear the spectacles only when watched. But when 
out in the street, we knew that the spectacles had come to stay. For we had 
lived in a fog and had not known it. We were in a different world; trees 
were not the blurs we had thought them; every leaf was outlined sharp and 
distinct; objects at a distance were smaller, because blurring had 
distorted, but again was clear, clean outline; everything was as different 
as is a photograph from a rough sketch. 

But about collecting. We bought birds' wings from a boy living out in the 
country but coming to school every day. Finding an old store where, for very 
little, we could buy dried star-fish, sea urchins, shells, and sea beans, 
little red sea-beans with a black speck, big, gray ones and brown ones. 
Stories of wideness and remoteness; stories of storms, or palms on coral 
beaches, ocean depths and strange lands; all told in the rumbling of shells 
and the odor of brine by these things from the sea. Then we'd look at our 
geography, picturing ourself some day crossing the ocean to see the wonders 
of Europe; whispering galleries, old castles, and leaning towers. Turning 
the pages, until we'd get as far away as the South Sea Islands. Marking a 
dot on a South Sea Island; the dot would be far-away, adventurous we; other 
dots out in the ocean would be savages approaching in canoes. Remarkable 
adventures; remarkable heroism. And then traveling on the point of the 
pencil to Madagascar, searching along the shore for a dodo to add to our 
collection. 

Spending a good deal of time in reading, going around in the afternoon to 
see our relatives, because we liked to read, and because they had books. Our 
grandfather was a man of little education, but he had, somewhere in him, 
apart from all that made him a "good, business man" an interest in books. 
Next to the dining room, he had his library, with books such as the works of 
Carlyle and Ruskin. These books were bright and new-looking. In the store, 
he had two private offices; one, where he attended to his own affairs, for 
he owned many houses, and loaned money, usuriously, we learned when we were 
older; and his really private office upstairs, where, with his friends, he 
invented and drank strange drinks in vast quantities. Here were the books 
that he did read; biographies and histories, but books of travel in the 
greatest number; at least half a dozen dealing with Arctic exploration; 
dictionaries, paintings of value on the walls, demijohns all around. We were 
sent up to get him one afternoon; he was reading a heavy book, a pink drink 
on one side of him, a yellow drink on the other side. Asking us what we knew 
about the aurora borealis. And we were eager to tell, but he had to go 



[Pages 31 to 33 are missing.] 



All ready! Other kid snickering. We'd think of a boy we hated or of our 
troubles in school; then we'd look grave. But the little kid shaking all 
over. Photographer trying again; all three shaking all over, each blaming 
the others for making him laugh in this nervous way that had nothing of 
merriment. 

"Now, steady, and you'll see the little bird." Then he'd have two of us 
looking serious, but upon the little kid a smile was always flickering. 

We'd look over our geography, and we'd wish we could have a stone or leaf or 
anything else from the strange countries, until we found that collecting 
stamps was what we wanted. Sending to New York for a thousand, assorted 
stamps. A bulky package came; the faces of kings tumbled to the floor in a 
shower of color. We were in France with the French stamps; Napoleon, the 
Bastille, the Revolution in the air about us. We were amid castles and 
battle scenes in Germany and England. Here was a stamp that had really been 
in vast, tropical, barbaric India. Then a stamp that expressed the marvels 
of long travelling in the mystery and romance of Australia. Life was meaning 
more and more. 

In the top floor, we had many amusements, playing stories most of the time. 
We were three brothers, early settlers, and killed more Indians than were 
ever heard of by Carson or Boone. And we had a "good, business man" game; 
with groat bargaining and traveling for the firm. In this game, the other 
kid dominated; we could not bargain with him; we'd have to sell at his 
price, and buy when he wanted to sell. And sometimes we three got along very 
well, and sometimes we hated one another. Always telling on one another. 
Telling every little thing, pleased to see another punished, so virtuous 
would it make us feel. Why, we'd do detective work to catch the other kid 
stealing cake so that we could tell, and the others, seeing us in 
wrongdoing, would cry together, "I'm going to tell!" And blackmailing one 
another. Saying, "If you don't give me your candy, I'll tell what you did 
the other day." Having notebooks with charges written in them. Sometimes 
each would have a long list of offenses; then the offenses would cancel off; 
for if the other kid would tell that we had played with Biff Allen, we 
should tell that he had uprooted plants in the yard. 

"I'm going to tell," the other kid would say; and we'd look at our note book 
to see whether he could afford to tell. 

And fighting often. Once we went to Poughkeepsie, very glad to get away, we 
did hate those others so. Visiting a family with a boy named Artie in it. 
Artie urging us to buy candy; we clinging to our spending money. Suggesting 
soda water; we holding back as long as we could. But nickels and dimes 
slipped away, and we desponded. You see, we wanted to take back something 
for the little kids. Artie telling of a merry-go-round. Then we just went 
right into a store and bought two boats for a quarter apiece, beautiful 
gifts; all blue with yellow stripes around, and pretty white sails. 

Artie wanting us to sail the boats. We refusing; Artie sulking. So we sailed 
the boats in the bath tub that there should be no sulking. Then Artie wanted 
a storm. We protesting. A terrific storm; boats tossing wildly. Blue paint 
coming off; yellow paint on the sails. We almost tearful but making feeble, 
little waves that could do no harm, just to have everything pleasant. Artie 
sending a tidal wave; a bowsprit knocked off. 

In the cars, we unwrapped the boats to see whether they were so awful-
looking; paint all patchy; no longer pretty, white sails. Nothing but old, 
second-hand toys for the little kids. Trying to persuade ourself that 
something could be done. Perhaps with a little mending or some rubbing of 
the paint. Nothing could be done. Just throwing the spoiled, old boats from 
the car window. Oh, big, grown-up persons, don't tell us any more of the 
happy time that childhood is! 

Unhappiness a good deal of the time. The unpleasant things they made us 
take. We had to eat oat meal in the morning before having anything else. We 
detesting oat meal, making a fearful time over it, but Mrs. Lawson firm. One 
time it was spoiled a little, and we were in a frenzy, thinking it the most 
awful tyranny that could be thought of that we should have to eat spoiled 
oat meal, Mrs. Lawson declaring that it was good, we crying and wailing in 
revolt. Then we'd play little games to make the eating easier; 
irregularities would be mountains, milk, the sea, and sugar glaciers and ice 
fields, taking a spoonful, the sea rushing in, inhabitants engulfed. 
Emptying a whole dishful into our pocket now and then. In fact, so strong 
was our dislike, that we have detested "breakfast foods" ever since. And 
besides the goose grease, the sulphur and molasses, these things that we had 
to have were the things that we could not have. But some day we'd be a man; 
looking forward to that far-distant, twenty first birthday. Then we could 
have all the Chili sauce that we should want. We had some sort of an idea of 
a Chili sauce spree. Celebrating with our friends; opening bottle after 
bottle. Awful debauchery; more bottles. On our twenty first birthday, there 
would be little heard but the popping of Chili sauce bottles. 

Paper soldiers had marched into our lives. We and the other kid would drive 
away the little kid, and he'd walk around the yard while we would drill our 
soldiers. And then have battles. Each would want the blue-coated soldiers, 
for they were the Americans. The red-coats were the British. We'd be 
violent; but then we'd have to give in to the other kid or there'd be no 
battle. Reasoning that, though we were the British, we were, in some way not 
clear but satisfying, not the British. 

Slinging book covers at each other's army, taking as prisoners all we'd 
knock down. Feeling a desire of individuality among our soldiers, 
remembering and following the careers of certain ones, promoting and 
exalting then whenever they deserved to be honored. We wanted them to seem 
real; so we wrote names on their backs to make them characters in the great, 
military story they were living. Giving them marks, which were medals, 
whenever they'd do remarkable things such as landing on their feet when 
knocked across the room. But the other kid was sterner with his heroes than 
we were with ours; whenever his would fail to live up to their records, he'd 
degrade them, have hangings, burn them at the stake. We could not bear to 
see our heroes made of common paper like the rest; when they'd disgrace 
themselves, we'd pretend not to see, though displeased with ourself for 
favorites. 

There was General Burgoyne, who was British, yet was not British. The 
General was getting old, and we always saw pathos and an appealing in 
anything old. The General had someone else's head, no spine, and a bad case 
of wrinkles in the chest. We'd brace him up with cardboard, pasting on a 
standard a foot long, which was not fair, causing the other kid to protest 
and defer to our international law. Then he captured the General. Had a 
court-martial, courteously inviting us, each holding a white handkerchief of 
truce. But the court-martial was a farce; it was plain that the General was 
a doomed man, we looking on, offering all kinds of ransoms that we could 
offer, though having little, for marbles, tops, everything that was ours was 
the other kid's and everything that was his was ours, except the soldiers in 
times of war. Other kid firm, pointing out that we were present only as a 
matter of courtesy and had no voice. Sending the old General to the rack to 
make him confess, having respect for neither his honors nor his years. Other 
kid uttering outrageous confessions for the prisoners. We, despairing and 
excited, crying, "It isn't true!" 

General Burgoyne saying, vicariously, "I admit there is not one medal on me 
that I deserve." Indignation bursting from us. 

"I'm a low, common favorite, and I admit I've made my way by sneaky work. 
Spare me! I'm afraid to die! I'm a coward, and I admit it!" We so indignant 
that we would have rescued the general by force, only we could not, for 
there was the white handkerchief in our hand. 

Last awful scene. Gallant, old hero dying like a man, we telling him that we 
knew very well the cries and groans and appeals for mercy were not from him. 
And we mourning, unable to understand how the other kid could be so mean. 
Then declaring personal war, beating him up and down the top floor room 
until he remembered that we had "sassed" a neighbor the day before. 

And parades. All three of us lying on the floor in front of the soldiers to 
have them denser to our view. Enjoying the martial vista, helmets and 
horses' head sticking up, thick and jagged from a mass of color. More than a 
thousand, covering most of the long floor; for ours was a spirit to make as 
important as we could anything that interested us. Pleased with uniforms but 
more pleased with uniformity. Our eye traveling along a line of helmet tops, 
along a line of epaulets, along belts or boots. Just as ten men abreast are 
not attractive, but let each wear a blue badge or a white hat, something for 
the eye to travel along, and the effect is pleasing. 

And when we were asleep, would see them, regiment after regiment go by, our 
own soldiers and others in fantastic uniform not in our army at all. We 
interested and then wearied. An interminable army marching by, we so tired 
that we'd want to see never another soldier. Trying not to look but having 
to look. We'd say, "Oh, if someone would only wake me up!" But we'd sleep 
on, having to review the parade, grown monotonous and tormenting. Wishing we 
could arouse ourself, nut unable to, repeating, "Oh, if someone would only 
wake me up!" 

Nevertheless, all three would run up to see the parade in the morning. Mrs. 
Lawson pouncing in, angry that we should not have waited to put on our 
clothes. Dashing through cavalry, swishing through infantry. kicking over 
bands and drum corps. We pretending great distress that she should be 
satisfied and should not take our soldiers away. Really, we'd be pleased, 
for she would be a hobgoblin attacking the allied forces. And we'd go back 
to look for survivors. Finding one standing under the see-saw. Delight. 
Another kicked to the window sill, and standing. Crying our admiration, 
giving them medals. 

But there was wildness in us, so that Mrs. Lawson could not restrict us to 
the top floor or to playing in front of the house. When we played in the 
yard, we wondered what lay beyond the high fence two yards away, and whether 
an explorer could get around the church to the strange land on the other 
side. We and the other kid became explorers. The little kid following over 
our fence; we chasing him back. Starting off again; little kid, too, 
starting. We scrambling over fences to leave him far behind; little kid far 
behind, legs to short, but still coming. Then we'd wait and box his ears, 
sending him back, leaving him crying. Going on to explore; little kid still 
coming. The only way we could get him back was to go back with him, lift him 
over the fence, and then run, he not knowing in what direction. 

In one yard, we'd find a heavy growth of weeds; that would be a jungle, and 
every beetle or spider would be a tiger or some other creature of the 
jungle. A high shed would be a mountain, Mt. Everest. We'd climb Mt. Everest 
and get into a yard with trees. That would be the Black Forest. A dragon or 
two lurking around. We'd get twenty yards away; that would be real 
remoteness, we making maps in our mind of the strange lands we had passed 
through, we on the steppes of Siberia, looking at all the world around. A 
little head just appearing over Mt. Everest; little kid still coming. Then 
we'd be good to him, and all three would steal grapes in Egypt. 






Chapter Five 


Neighbors complained to Them about us. Just because in our travels we would 
tear down a vine or two. Or only break a trellis in scrambling away from the 
inhabitants. Or maybe only shout impertinent things at savages looking from 
wig-wam windows. For these offenses They punished us, beating us with a 
strap or a whip. Striking us in passionate outbursts. 

In Mrs. Lawson's room one day. She was teaching us our Sunday school lesson; 
it was about Moses and the rock. They strolled in, brushing their hat, 
looking into the mirror to see that the necktie was all right, very 
particular with every detail of their appearance. Then Moses smote the rock. 
But they flurried us; we could not pronounce "smote". An easy word, but we 
said, "smut". Told to read it over; again we said "smut". More flurried; 
unable to use our brain; saying "smut" still again, because our lips formed 
that way and we had no brain. To them, we were showing dogged meanness. They 
struck us in the face. 

"That's smote," They said. "Now do you understand what smote is? Say smote." 

We whimpering, "Yes, sir; smote." Our brain had cleared; perhaps something 
had flashed into it to make it work. Probably not; it was right to beat us 
when we were bad. 

But They often beat us with a dog whip, thinking well of using the butt end. 
And the butt end seemed to us to be going just a little bit too far; it 
interfered with our belief that 



[Page 42 is missing.] 



for fun." Couldn't explain that we didn't mean it was for fun to burn the 
fence, but that the fence had been burned while we were having fun. 

But they were gentle enough for us. "Why do you do these bad things?" 

"Just for fun." Our stiff body was there; we were somewhere else, or had 
ceased to exist. 

But, even though we weren't there, we could feel that they were trying to 
hold back. Their hand was on our shoulder. We, who had done wrong, should 
have blubbered, because of their kindness, only, we weren't there. 

"Now, tell me; try to think and don't be afraid; why do you do these bad 
things?" 

Our lips formed, "Just for fun." They struck us savagely; blood gushed from 
our nose. Then we were there. 

Said Mrs. Lawson, "Toddy's nose bleeds so readily." 

They went away; but we were there. A wild, mad we. Running up the stairs, 
blood all over us. Running into the spare room. throwing ourself upon the 
bed, rubbing our nose all over the counterpane. A dirty, grovelling, little 
beast, crazed to get even, and doing damage was the only way to get even. 
Rubbing our nose on the lace curtains, making the room a horror room. 
Gurgling hysterically and then just sodden, not caring what should be done 
with us. In fact, wishing they would kill us, for suicide had been in our 
mind from the earliest days. Trying a sharp rap on our nose to renew the 
supply; for the truth is that nose-bleeding was an ailment of ours, as were 
head aches and oppressed breathing, all outgrown one by one. 

At the dinner table, we were not allowed to speak; They could not bear to 
hear our voices. Once, feeling the restraint, we giggled nervously. They 
looked over the newspaper, saying, "Who's that!" The little kid started to 
tell; he kept quiet. The other kid answered that he had heard nothing. We 
said, "I did it." Mrs. Lawson would have told anyway; we wanted credit for 
truthfulness. 

"Go upstairs!" We rising slowly, eating pie as we rose. We going up inch by 
inch; pie going down inch by inch. Couldn't bear to leave that pie. And this 
was defiance to them. Jumping from their chair, catching us by the collar, 
hitting us in the face with their open hand. 

We running up the stairs, striking at figures in the wall paper, butting our 
head against the bannister, trying to kill ourself, biting our arms, running 
up and down the hall in frenzy. They went out, and, when the other kids came 
up, we were leaning over the bannister, letting blood drip into the lower 
hall to do damage. We knew it was dirty work; had as much sense of decency 
as a grown person; only, just then we were a little beast. The other kids 
cursed their father. All three chanted the vilest oaths to be thought of. 
Praying that death in most horrible form should overtake Them. 

We were often deeply religious. Often in anguish as we thought of our sins, 
getting down on our knees to say our own prayers, not waiting for the formal 
prayers said with Mrs. Lawson in the evening. Often keeping track of our 
behaviour by marking on a wall the length of time we had been able to be 
good. There were many quarter days, some half days, and long blanks were 
encouraging, and we'd try for whole days or even two days for a record. But 
with our believing, there was incredulity too. 

When a small boy, we puzzled over inconsistencies in the Bible, and asked 
questions that could not be answered satisfactorily. Sometimes puzzling 
right through a game of baseball. 



[Pages 45 and 46 are missing.] 



Wouldn't know. Knocking us down, we curling up on the floor, keeping our 
head under, trying to chew the carpet, or biting our own fingers, or just 
sodden. 

We had found our way to the country; we and the other kid and two or three 
others almost every afternoon. Liking to have favorite haunts, where we'd 
make believe we were camping. Discovering a malarial, little pond in the 
Boulevards woods, seeing little, black creatures, which we recognized as 
real pollywogs. Taking the pollywogs home, watching their legs come out, 
interested in the marvel of their turning green. Pollywogs losing their 
tails; we never able to find any. Wanting to have more creatures in our 
aquarium, trying to make them by soaking horse hairs in a bottle. Horse 
hairs remained horse hairs, and we exposed another fiction. 

And having trouble to start to the country; that little kid always tagging 
on behind. The best runner would hold him, little kid struggling, the rest 
of us running until several blocks away, then the best runner following. 
Little kid starting after; none of us in sight. Little kid wailing on the 
corner; a fist in each eye. 

And then we bought more birds' wings, for we made a sling shot, searching a 
whole afternoon for just the right kind of a crotch, shooting our own birds. 
On a lone tree with low branches we saw our first blue bird, we underneath, 
aiming with fierce excitement. A fluttering amid leaves, and we could not 
have been more amazed if a bit of blue sky had fallen at our feet. Then 
shooting our first woodpecker, dressed in polka dots and a red hood, running 
up and down a tree, tapping like Mrs. Lawson on a window pane. 

But it seemed shamefully wasteful to cut off wings, scalp, and tail, thought 
they looked very neat mounted on white cards. Ours was a spirit to go on and 
do better, so we tried to stuff birds, making them long-necked things, 
rumpled and stiff-legged. But practicing with many sparrows, becoming so 
expert with the sling shot that we could bring a little ball of feathers 
tumbling from a telegraph wire almost every time. Beaks opening helplessly 
at us; useless wings spread out, feebly beating the ground, we fiercely 
exulting, knowing nothing of pity, though to end suffering, we would break 
necks without injuring the skin. 

Learning to leave in the skull after cleaning it and filling it with cotton, 
making eyes like the eyes of statuary, filling sockets with cotton, learning 
to cut the skin under one wing, so as to preserve the breast. Finally, we 
could stuff a bird as big as a pigeon, so that the feathers would be smooth 
and the form would be its own, though in mounting birds with wires we 
succeeded less well. Neglecting our school studies, unable to center our 
mind on them, but spending much time studying natural history, having many 
books, learning Latin names and the classifications under which all 
creatures are arranged, reading the lives of the great naturalists. Having 
every specimen labelled, as in a real museum, a boy with a printing press 
printing the labels. In the mineral world, we could find few specimens, not 
much more than clay formations and pieces of cobble stones, ugly outside but 
beautifully white or pink inside. For ours was a city paved with jasper; 
only the jasper did not show. Nothing showing but yellowish brown; but the 
tints of the rainbow underneath. Then, in our remarkable city, other streets 
were studded with precious stones; for out of granite blocks, we would dig 
minute garnets now and then. Nevertheless, we had a large collection of 
minerals, acquired by buying or trading. All kinds of iron ore; the 
crumbling, black kind, red hematite, and iron pyrites looking like gold; 
copper ore in many shades of green; crystals, spar, agates; many 
petrifications, 



[Page 49 is missing.] 



dandelion. 

Often going shooting alone, pleased with ourself that we should roam alone, 
seeking ourself in earnest pursuit and not in mere pastime. Wishing we were 
far away somewhere, and could not see the city from every hill and the vast 
Capitol everywhere. Feeling marvels of romance and imagining in the mere 
names of Sumatra, Orinoco, Ceylon. Our desire for remoteness offended by 
papers scattered around or tin cans every now and then. 

Liking to get into the woods, imaging ourself in a real forest. Seeing the 
remains of a pic-nic. Or we were out on a prairie. A few, old cows coming 
along; well, they were buffalo. But then the fluttering of a morning 
newspaper. If we could only be away off and uncivilized somewhere! Then we 
would get as far away as a large pond, where even the Capitol could not be 
seen, having told Mrs. Lawson that a boy had invited us to dinner to account 
for our staying away till night. Having dinner all alone, digging up 
potatoes, roasting them in the woods. In a camp fire. We were a pioneer! May 
be a gypsy or an Indian. We had not learned to swim yet, but we'd paddle 
around the pond on a shaky raft we had made, liking to stand on one end 
until it would sink, we to our knees in water, enjoying the feeling of a 
little danger. Paddling around with our sling shot ready, looking for red-
shouldered black birds in the bushes along the bank. and their eggs, all 
scrawled over with mysterious figuring, as if the black birds had been 
taking first lessons in writing on them. Shooting our first king bird, 
thinking him some kind of a bee martin, until we saw his covered-over crown. 
Crowned with a flame and the rest of him sober and modest. Bringing down 
cedar birds, stuffing them with their crests standing, trying to preserve 
their jauntiness of manner, pleased with the splashes of red-sealing wax on 
their wings. Now and then shooting a strange bird, going home to search 
through natural histories to find out what he was, going back next day to 
hunt for his mate, for we had male, female, young, nest and eggs of every 
species, if possible. 

And dreaming, as we tramped over hills and through woods, for the delight in 
birds, shells, and minerals had become ambition. We wanted to be a 
naturalist. Seeing ourself in a canoe in strange South American waters. 
Luxuriance of life around, palms waving, a python swinging from overhanging 
branches, a jaguar lying at our feet. Or collecting shells on West Indian 
sands. Or away off in our cabin in the Rocky Mountains; traps, skins, guns 
around. Everything that is of picturesqueness, poetry and soft music playing 
to us in these imaginings, satisfying because at last we knew what we 
wanted, and tormenting, because it seemed that things dreamed of could never 
come true. Still, we'd be twenty some day. 

Our grandfather often asked us what we should like to do when we should grow 
up. Which annoyed us, for we felt that we could not tell him. Asking, "Fell, 
have you decided yet?" We stupidly answering, "I don't know." But once 
coming right out with it. Saying that we should like to be a naturalist. Our 
grandfather looked puzzled; he went away, to his dictionary, we think, 
between a demijohn and a jug, with a painting of the Grand Canal over it. He 
came back, looking more puzzled. Evidently the definition did not please 
him; naturalists deal with birds and animals but not in canned form. Our 
grandfather looked pained, for he had his own dreams, and ours startled him. 
Which were of a great grocery house founded by him, going down the 
generations, his eldest grandson some day the head of the family and 
important among things in barrels, things in bottles, and things in cans. 
But not things in cases with 



[Pages 52 to 58 are missing.] 







Chapters Six to Eight 


When we weren't running around the streets or reading serious books, 
fighting and thieving or going to a prayer meeting, with Mrs. Lawson, we 
were pottering with our collections, taking inventories, making catalogues, 
arranging and improving. Taking a partner now and then when there was a boy 
with curiosities that we coveted. But uneasiness; we could not bear to have 
any one share with us the wonderful things we wanted all our own. We'd have 
to pick a quarrel just to get rid of the partner, glad to see him go away 
with his curiosities under his arm. Then we got an air gun; when that air 
gun was in our hands we had no civilized instincts and our mind could hold 
nothing but intent to kill. Seeing a fine robin on a lawn, hopping around 
gravely, throwing out his chest. There were people on the piazza, but we 
jumped the fence, and kneeling, aimed. A woman screaming; a gardener 
starting toward us; another woman imploring us not to shoot. We killed the 
robin. 

Mounted this bird, and his appearance filled us with admiration for him and 
for ourself. A little weak around the knees perhaps, but that fine chest was 
thrown out magnificently. Dissecting the rest of him, for we no longer threw 
bodies away, having become interested in mysteries inside. Dissecting all 
kinds of creatures; had a noose on the cat path under the fence, catching 
cats to see how everything was with them inside. Opening a department of 
anatomy, mounting skeletons, preserving specimens in alcohol. And getting 
into trouble right along, because we'd return late to supper from our 
expeditions. We and the other kid together all afternoon; we late; the other 
kid just in time. Having had the same experiences; we all over with mud; he 
with only a little mud here and there. And he could explain, having a boyish 
kind of suavity unlike our fits of stupidity. 

Sometimes, down in the store, They would say, "Put this letter over there." 
We starting toward the door. 

"Over there!" We going somewhere else. 

"Over there!" We standing, looking at them helplessly, brainless, until They 
would snatch the letter from us. Often in trouble for obstinacy, whereas we 
were not there. 

The little kid was punished oftenest of all. He'd do outrageous things. 
Indifferently and without much interest in what he was doing. Mrs. Lawson 
would make him stay in the yard to play, to keep him off the streets, and 
because she liked to look out at him. He was her favorite, because he had 
been so very little when she had come to us. Sitting at the window, sewing, 
looking out at him. The little kid would want to do something wrong. He'd do 
something a little wrong, such as stepping among the plants to find out 
whether he was watched, knowing by the tapping of the thimble on the glass. 
No tapping; Mrs. Lawson having a caller. Little kid luring the very little 
kid next door to the fence. Reaching under, starting to pull his neighbor 
through a space about big enough for cats. Very little kid screaming; little 
kid pulling away on a very little leg. Parents crying to him; little kid 
pulling away without excitement; very little kid coming through with a jerk, 
most of his clothes scraped off. 

The little kid would reach over and cut clothes lines just 



[Pages 61 and 62 are missing.] 



and for a few cents something from Africa would be sent to us; little square 
bits of Japan; trifles that seemed a part of Peru, entrancing us with 
suggestions of Pizarro, the Incas, llamas, and scenes in the Andes with 
great condors sailing overhead. Blank spaces in our album filling little by 
little, for once in the album no stamp would be sold, our trading done with 
duplicates only. A stamp dealer's catalogue would inflame us with desire, 
and then They would wonder where all the envelopes were going, we and the 
other kid, sometimes with a corps of assistants, busily spoiling away. No 
one at the post office seemed to notice unusual numbers of envelopes from 
Their store, but once a clerk asked us, for we had torn a package in halves, 
in such a hurry that we could not wait for something from Cuba or China to 
arrive. Sometimes we were stupid, but often we were sharp enough. Saying, 
carelessly, "Oh, the office boy did that just out of meanness when he was 
fired." And both of us knew not to spoil envelopes too often; we had the 
wisdom and self control that the true criminal has not; so we were never 
caught. 

Sometimes we'd do very good business. We'd come home at night with a dozen 
dead birds, some of them rare, a scarlet tanager and a Baltimore oriole and 
a bobolink among them. We skinning and stuffing until late at night, the 
other kid "travelling" for us, going to the collectors having them on hand 
to see our goods the next day, for of all the boys we knew only Mac Dobson 
could stuff birds as we could, and he had outgrown his interest in 
collections. We'd sell eighty cents' worth perhaps; forty in cash, twenty 
sure and the rest in bad debts. 

We'd want something from Hong Kong; and the other kid would want something 
from Hong Kong, a catalogue before us. We'd hesitate; then one would say, 
"Let's treat the little kid." Not 



[Page 64 is missing.] 



had not its usual interest, for our own little kid was in the boat. And then 
on the sands up on the island with an ice house at its end, for all up and 
down the river were ice houses which burned down now and then. Which seemed 
as strange to us as the having of chilblains in a hot house. Little kid 
sitting at the tide line, but we making him sit still further back. Then 
away back. Really, it was a fearful thing we were doing, taking a boy with 
us so; Tykesy and Rusty could enjoy themselves, but our feeling of 
responsibility was too great. Little kid wanting to look for shells; we 
watching every step he took. Wanting to go in wading. Both of us horrified, 
but then letting him go out as far as up to his knees. Then showing him how 
wonderful we were. We swimming out at least ten strokes; the other kid 
really sitting down with his head under water. With his head under water! 
Why the little kid just gave up; he had the most extraordinary brothers in 
all the world. No wonder he "sassed" Rusty and told Tykesy to attend to his 
own affairs. 

But we never took the little kid to the river again; with every tug boat 
seeming to bear down upon us and every drop of water causing us to fear a 
leak, the strain was too great. The next time we treated him we took him to 
the park, and even there the swings went too high. 

Back in the business world again, expecting to sell a dollars' worth but 
realizing ten cents; just nothing but worriment and planning that would not 
come true. Then going to the park, one of us watching and the other climbing 
tree after tree, getting a few cat birds' eggs, eggs of robins, and many 
sparrows' eggs. Every egg delighting us as if a great colored pearl. 
Disappointed with the result but then advertising a consignment of choice 
eggs, running from blotched all over to almost pure white, that customers 
did not know. But in our collection, we had not one falsely labelled thing. 
In that we were honest and earnest and true. 

Partners making a very good deal in grosbeaks' eggs that were sparrow eggs 
or in counterfeit oriole eggs, though one collector did come back and 
protest. Partner saying, "Baltimore or orchard oriole? Who said it was? It's 
a Bizzingum Oriole, which is very rare north of Central America. Why don't 
you study up?" Collector going away to boast of his Bizzingum egg. 

Then, with a whole pocketful of pennies, the partners would have to get away 
from business cares. Just letting everything go and having an outing, going 
to the theatre. Up in "nigger heaven". It was beautiful to be partners, 
brothers, and friends. Both pushing back, if anyone should jostle one, 
sitting together on the bare bench, may be the bigger arm around the smaller 
shoulders, enjoying some fearful play, which had been rightfully earned by 
hard scheming. Just as if there were no such things as anxiety, poor 
markets, and unmarketable goods. 

And then stringency again. With our relatives, the little kid became our 
rival. We on a corner, waiting for Nick to come home; little kid on the 
corner below; first one to meet Nick would get more. We going two corners 
down, going around the block, so that the little kid should not see. Little 
kid always seeing everything. We laughing, thinking we had fooled him. But 
then aware of signs of a disturbance farther down the street; a woman 
looking from a window, complaining that stones had been thrown at her. 
Little kid not in sight, but we very well knowing that he must be there. 
Going a block below. And then Nick coming along; little kid with him. 

But we were displeased with ourself because of this begging; liking to call 
on our other grandfather just to talk and see 



[Pages 67 to 71 are missing.] 



We liked to throw stones, liking the feel of a round stone fitting in our 
fingers, or a scaler that would go up and down, skimming a long distance. 
But we'd not throw stones at Chinamen, nor would we take part in annoying 
peddlers. To us, every foreigner was a poor man working hard to save enough 
to bring his old mother from a land of poverty and tyranny. We felt nothing 
of the hatred other boys had for foreigners. Seeing boys rob the ferocious-
looking but mild dwarf's candy stand; for a month we'd think of it. Unable 
to drive the remembrance from our mind. Mourning over some poor, old mother 
kept just so much longer away from this free land, which was our land, which 
was open to any foreigner, and we'd wish we could be in Castle Garden to 
welcome every one of them and wish every one of them good luck. Except the 
British. We liked to be forgiving, but we could, never, never forgive the 
British for what they had done to us. 

Trying again to study. Impossible. Going around for horse chestnuts. Every 
tree filled with stiff, little, Christmas trees with blossoms instead of 
things all tinsel; then prickly little balls coming out. Slinging up sticks, 
then slinging sticks for sticks, favorite stick always getting stuck. Liking 
to have chestnuts just to have them or to throw, for they would bound along 
a long distance. Then we had a game with them; fighting chestnuts on 
strings. When one broke another, the winner was one year old. Breaking a 
chestnut three years old, the winner would take his record. Having a 
champion several centuries old, a mean, battered, little lump, blackened in 
bonfires to harden him, hanging on by a thread, but smashing all the plump, 
young amateurs. Some other, withered, old veteran killing our champion; then 
we'd lay away the remains to be honored forever. Always honored things. 
Placing sticks on car tracks; just to record them as heroes for being run 
over. Putting a book on the roof, leaving it there all Winter. Just to have 
it have experiences, picturing its hardships when the snow was falling, 
pleased with it in the Spring, all faded, with leaves undulating and cover 
warped. Having a kite caught on a wire to look out now and then and seeing 
it falling apart, bedraggled and buffeted in stormy weather, we waiting for 
the frame to drop so that we should have another hero. 

Biff Allen was an old kind of youngster' he liked to be with grown men. We 
liked to be with grown persons, and talk seriously with them; but Biff spent 
much of his time in the police station, putting on boxing gloves with us, a 
dozen policemen in shirt sleeves looking on. Pounding each other, getting so 
tired that we could only lift our hands, pushing out weakly, policemen 
crowding around, urging us on. But we did not like this; we liked the 
excitement of fighting and were proud of our reputation as a fighter, but 
deliberately to fight for the enjoyment of others made us feel a loss of 
dignity so that we never went back to the police station. In Snyler's stable 
we had cock fights; Biff holding a "banty" and we holding a "banty" knocking 
their heads together to make them fight. We liked cock fights very much but 
there was something about hanging around a stable that we did no like. We'd 
not go to Snyler's, even for a cock fight, but, when we really had to have a 
little fighting, would shake up two cats in a bag. 

As we were partners with the other kid in collecting and in business we were 
partners with Biff in enterprises that attracted him, making a bob, then 
building an ice boat. The ice boat would not go through the door, to be 
sure, and the river was a mile away, and it was not completed until June, 
but as a specimen of the ship-builder's art it caused us great pride. 



[Page 74 is missing.] 



of invented words and then of foreign words found in the dictionary. Forming 
a polyglot language of French words, Latin words, Arabic words, all kinds of 
words. Once, when we were the excluded one, we spent a whole afternoon under 
the dining room table, where the others sat, searching for words to mystify 
and make us miserable. We making a note of every word they settled upon. 

Then in the evening, the little kid chuckling and winking, saying, "Let's go 
in the domus." 

We saying, "Yes, we might as well go into the house now." 

Little kid amazed and crestfallen. 

"Well then, let's go on the toit. Do you know what that means?" 

"Oh, you're going on the roof?" We pretending that we knew simply because we 
knew just about everything. But both kids crying, "Oh, he was listening! 
Come on; we don't want anything to do with him anyway. We're enemies with 
him anyway." And all evening they would have nothing to do with us, just 
because it was pleasing to be mean. Little kid showing signs of weakening, 
the other kid saying, sharply, "Come away; don't have anything to do with 
him." Little kid snatching a book from us, throwing it on the floor, running 
up the stairs. We'd look at the book unhappily and say something forlornly 
to the other kid. But the other kid would turn his back and mutter; nothing 
could be done with him when he had one of his mean streaks. A shower of 
birds coming down the stairs; little kid destroying the collection. And we 
rushing up the stairs, positively to kill him. And the other kid very angry, 
for the birds were his too. Rushing after us, but jumping on our back, for 
no matter what the cause might be he and the little kid would side against 
us. All three thumping and wrestling and hating. 

But saying next morning, "Is it friends or is it 



[Page 76 to 78 are missing.] 



the waiters would have style. 

Congress Park with a fence all around it and a trout pond inside; tally 
ho's, with the horn starting behind but reaching well up in front, a burst 
of brazen sound, and then a rattling on in what seemed a noisy silence; the 
club house, outside a little ball playing around and around. Going out to 
the Geyser and down to the Champion Spring where yellow encrustations formed 
on the earth. 

Sometimes, They would come up from the city in the evening. Dancing in the 
"hops", our great aunt, who was in the next hotel, probably leaning out the 
window, with a spy glass levelled. And girls! Though that does seem a 
disrespectful way of speaking of the beautiful, young women that would be 
pleasant to us, and call us dear little boys. 

Sometimes taking all of us driving to the lake, They cheerful and light-
hearted, letting us hold the reins. No newspaper in front. And taking us 
around to the springs, seeing which could drink the more spring water. 
Asking us about our studies, we switching away from our school studies to 
talk of our own studies; telling him the difference between a moth and a 
butterfly, one having coloring matter in scales and the other furry. Telling 
what we knew about the planets; about Saturn's rings and Jupiter's moons. Or 
history and mythology. They asking whether we knew the story of Proserpine. 
We delighted to tell, telling about Hercules as well, though always with our 
halting and floundering among words. 

Taking us to the Indian Encampment, buying us a bow and arrows. Putting us 
on a merry-go-round, just as if we could not have climbed all over a merry-
go-round while they were putting us on one wooden horse. Watching us with a 
smile. We fascinated, 



[Pages 80 and 81 are missing.] 



expected to tell everything, but just to find out for him. And then our new 
mother won us as really and truly our new mother by getting scissors and 
trimming the little kid's hair so that no one else should ever know. 

But we knew, and felt disgraced. Shaking our fist at him; digging our fist 
into his back to let him know what to expect when we should get him home. 
And the little kid suffered in silence, too polite to let family troubles be 
known. 

"You collect stamps?" our new mother asked. "If you'll tell me where to get 
them, we'll go now." And all together we cried where an old collector of 
stamps lived. And to the old collector we went, trying not to be too greedy, 
making our new mother's admission fee into the family as reasonable as we 
could. And then walking back with her, thinking it would be very bad manners 
to leave her in the street, though we very much wanted to get back to the 
album with our new stamps. 

And on our way back, the first thing we said was, "She's all right!" 
Denouncing all that had lied about her. And we'd defend her; and we'd do 
everything chivalrous. We all excited. Just what wouldn't we do! 

The other kid had not our rashness and enthusiasm, but he nodded and said, 
"She's all right." 

"She's all right," said the little kid. "Just the same, she'll tell." And we 
shook our fist at him. 

Boxing the little kids ears when we got him home. Hitting him until the 
other kid interfered; then we fought them both. Then miserable because they 
would not speak to us. They would not be friends again; so then we beat them 
for that. We all alone with no one to play with us. A cruel, hard world, 
where everything is not forgiven right away. Why, so worked up were we, 
thinking of uncharitableness and hardness, that, because they 



[Pages 83 to 89 are missing.] 



young persons there, for They were still a young man, and our new mother was 
younger. Progressive euchre in the afternoon, and, in the evening, bright 
dresses, bright talk, everything of brightness and pleasure, They easy and 
gracious in way that made us wistful, for we felt that such ways could never 
be our ways. 

They and our new mother going to the theatre, whenever there was anything 
worth seeing. We three sent early to bed. We and the other kid had one room, 
and the little kid had a room next door. The other kid seemed to rule us; 
whenever we wanted to do anything at all illicit we'd have to suggest and 
await his decision. We'd want the little kid in with us. Sometimes the other 
kid would be sleepy or irritable or just mean or wanting the little kid but 
keeping him away to be the ruler. Then sometimes we'd have business matters 
to talk over, liking to go over a good transaction in stamps, recalling the 
steps in our bargaining, debating a purchase thought well of by one but not 
advised by the other, deploring the lack of capital, which kept us back a 
good deal. 

Then casting off business worries; whistling a bugle call for the little 
kid. A thud on the floor next door. Might have taken half an hour in our 
consulting and planning; perhaps a whole hour. No matter how long, the bugle 
call would be followed by the soft thud of little, bare feet. 

Pattering feet; little kid fluttering through the beams from the sky light 
getting into bed with us, while we played stories. You see, we and the other 
kid had a game, which had gone on for years. We were the leaders in a 
military community away off somewhere, though Americans of course. Having 
many characters among our followers. Our enemies were the Hobgoblins, who 
looked like pictures of the dodo to us, though we don't know what they 
looked like to the others. 



[Page 91 is missing.] 



Ausable Chasm?" giving the hard "ch" sound. With them, mispronouncing was 
humor; and again everyone would laugh. Labored and primitive humor, but we'd 
think it very funny to be asked about the Hebrew children. 

But about our stories. Warfare not all the time; developing our country in 
times of peace, sometimes farmers, trappers, business men, having the 
elections, detecting crime, punishing the wicked, and rewarding the good. 
But the other kid sitting out on the stairs. A battle begun; little kid 
quaking. Awful carnage; little kid gasping. Becoming so terrified that he 
would have to run in to us for protection. And the other kid sternly 
pitiless. We pleading with him. No; not another word would he play until the 
little kid should leave. Then we'd hit him. Other kid fighting back and the 
little kid piling in, siding against us of course. All three rolling and 
fighting in the dark. 

Other times, when They were out, we'd light the gas, and get a remarkably 
big ironing board from a room used as a storage room. Tobogganning down the 
stairs, going at fearful speed, knocking all to pieces the base board at the 
bottom. Or having theatrical performances when we were supposed to be fast 
asleep. Our favorite play was the "Gunpowder Plot". We'd often write a 
little play patched up from our reading, giving parts for the others to 
learn. We were King James sitting on his throne, which was a chair on the 
bed, and the other kid was Guy Fawkes, looking very wicked in burnt-cork 
whiskers. The ignorant, little kid not knowing much about the part he was 
playing, but thinking he knew, which seems to be enough for any actor. 

And then other things. We had left the Academy and were going to Public 
School, Number Two, with a girl's head carved on one side of the doorway and 
a boy's head carved on the other 



[Page 93 is missing.] 



the Hickeys at play in their yard. It pleased us to throw a lot of tin cans 
into the yard. A dead cat was lying near by. It seemed pleasing to have a 
dead cat thump down among the Hickeys. Dead cat thumping. We were all 
insolence and vanity, feeling ourself quite as strong as the whole tribe. 
And there was Harry Hickey, running down the alley. We waiting with our 
shinny held back. And we struck him calmly, viciously under the eye. But he 
pounded us, knocked us down, rolled us in the mud. Big chieftain mauled; mud 
rubbed in the big chieftain's face. 

Left to sit on a big stone and think it over. We felt no particular 
resentment; we had deserved every bit, and recognized a thoroughness of 
treatment that we could not but admire. Rather humiliating; still, the enemy 
was bigger after all. Then we wanted to shake hands and be friends, never 
preying upon the Chesnut Streeters again. May be we might have some little 
ceremony of signing a treaty. Who'd have though that a quiet boy, who went 
around with girls, could be so strong! 

Four bits of stick sailing though the air. He had taken and sawed our 
shinny! We picked up the bits. There was the handle, worn in battles and 
games to fit our hands, as if it had grown that way. It was a part of us. 
Covered with notches that we had cut for all kinds of adventures that it had 
taken part in. Marks in the middle pieces; we remembering what each mark 
recalled, every mark with meaning. The battered knob was a diary of 
scratches. 

Oh, raging and wildness! Running from the alley. Running back to shout a 
challenge in story book language. And then going home with the remains of 
our sacred shinny, putting them under the roof, where our treasures and our 
heroes were kept. 

Then war! Declared by us and declared by the other kid and cried for by the 
little kid, too. Little kid running out with the fiery cross, though the 
fiery cross was only imagined. Up and down the street, pausing in front of 
houses with boys in them, with the whistle that meant to meet on the corner. 
And then to Washington Avenue, for we were friends with Crousey since we had 
left the Academy, and Crousey would bring not only his own crowd but the 
Spruce Streeters, too. Going down to the corner with the other kid. He 
swinging his shinny bravely; we tossing our new shinny high in the air. 
Admiring a warlike gallantry in his appearance, martial feeling overflowing 
in us. All our own "fellers" on the corner. All the good fighters and even 
Whitey, who was not much good, but had responded just the same. It stirred 
us that our own should be waiting to fight for us, just as we had often 
fought for them. One mending his sling shot, another practicing on a hydrant 
with his shinny. Some excited over the war cloud, others sitting on the curb 
stone, showing their indifference. One of the Robinsons wanting to know 
whether we were in the right. Biff Allen saying, "That don't matter; anyone 
hits him hits me!" And a chorus, "Me, too!" It was our own gang; we cried 
aloud in eagerness and pride. 

And excitement down the street; the allies coming in a straggling band, 
whooping and waving sticks. Why, no wonder we were moved; old feuds 
forgotten and former enemies hastening to fight side by side. Then the 
Spruce Streeters under Limpy Bowen, with their whooping and their waving of 
sticks, Grown people stopping to look at a swarm of bad, idle boys. We 
seeing a band of brave, faithful warriors, giving power to our challenge and 
meaning to our boast. A picture that filled us with the romance of glory of 
victory and vengeance. 

Everyone shouting, forming in the middle of the street, running 



[Page 96 is missing.] 



raging half in the street and half in the alley. 

Old Harrigan, the fat cop, calling upon us to desist in the name of the law, 
throwing his club at us, nearly catching our wobbling kid, still hugging his 
paving stone, saying not a word, all his battle fever hugged into his 
burden. 

And then, when safely away from the law, what bragging! "Did you see me! 
Yes,; but did you see what I did!" Little kids chattering, our own, little 
kid saying never a word, going away to hide his paving stone. Under a stoop 
or in a vacant lot, or wherever he did hide it, for he was fond of 
mysteries, and would never tell anything. 

And then going home. Knowing we were in disgraceful condition. Triumphant in 
our own world, but with adjusting called for in the grown-up world. Walking 
along a curb stone, feeling that if we could walk a certain distance without 
falling off, we should be able to get into the house without being seen. 
Feeling that if our toes should come exactly to cracks in the sidewalk five 
times in succession, we should have good luck, making sure of good luck by 
touching every stoop and every other railing. But our new mother was home. 
Hearing us creeping up the stairs in a way too unlike our own noisy way. 
Calling us into her room, and looking at us. 

"Stand there in a row, until your father comes home," said our new mother. 
And we stood, obedient, feeling the effect of the commanding appearance, as 
she went on working butterflies into some kind of a hoop arrangement. The 
one nearest a table reached over for an ink bottle. Rubbing ink on the white 
showing through a torn stocking. Passing the bottle down the line; all the 
torn stockings mended. Rubbing against one another's shoulders to get dirt 
off; pointing to own faces to show dirt on other faces. Cleaning shoes on 
the under side of a rug; combing hair with fingers, working collars and 
neckties into 



[Pages 98 to 100 are missing.] 



About this time, Biff Allen told us that he should put up with his mother 
impertinence no longer. Proposing that we should run away. Biff knew a 
sailor, who had been to India, and learned that we could get jobs in Upper 
Burma, driving elephants for eighteen dollars a week. Then our mind could 
hold nothing but thoughts of elephants, waving palms, natives in turbans. 
The other kid, too, wanted to be an elephant-driver. So we sold out stamps 
for fifteen dollars, Biff contributing a pile of dime novels, which we did 
not read at the time, telling us that his contribution was quite as good as 
ours, as we'd find out during lonely watches by the camp fire. But Biff was 
not satisfied with the fifteen dollars, which he could not touch anyway, for 
we cast our lots for the other kid as treasurer in every enterprise. Biff 
wanted us to go down to the store every day. Relays of boys. Bumpy Driscoll 
carrying sardines to Eagle Street and turning them over to Tykesy. Returning 
for stuffed olives, and back in time to meet one of us waiting with canned 
peaches. 

And we wanted to take along the little kid; he might get a job driving baby 
elephants for nine dollars a week. But thinking that, whereas there seemed 
no room at home for three of us, there might be room for one; so, though we 
carted away loads of only the best groceries, we left enough for the little 
kid to carry on business with them when he should grow up and be a good 
business man. 

Little kid very much wanting to go, though never really pleading; we thought 
it unwise. Coming to us one day when we were in Biff's garret, looking at 
more groceries than we could possibly have carried. Handing us a parcel. 
Saying, "It's provisions." We unwrapped a big pickle; wicked, little kid had 
dipped into a corner grocery barrel. We told him that he was a good, little 
kid, and we should always remember him when away off in foreign climes. 
"Foreign climes" too much for him; making awful faces, trying not to cry. 

All unhappy, because he was going to lose his two, big brothers, very likely 
forever. Running down the stairs; going to tell. Going no farther than the 
bottom step; no more telling among us three. Thinking it over; fists in his 
eyes. Oh, he'd just have to tell! Little kid saying never a word. 

We were to start at four o'clock in the morning, and meet Biff on the 
corner. Eight o'clock would have done, but four o'clock was more 
interesting. 

Four o'clock. We up and ready to start for India, having said goodbye the 
evening before to the little kid, who had given up talking of going with us. 
We went to his room to see him once more. Fast asleep, but all his clothes 
were on, and he hugged a bundle under one arm. We wavered at this; but India 
is no place for small boys. So we kissed him good bye; and the other kid 
kissed him goodbye. We wanting to have some kind of a ceremony over the 
little, sleeping kid. Wanting to pray that he should be happy and should be 
the good, business man that we could never be. 

But the other kid said, "Come on." 

Creeping down the stairs, passing Their hat on the rack in the gray hall. 
Wanting to be mournful and sentimental over the hat, going away forgiving 
everyone for everything. 

But the other kid said, "Come on." 

Lingering in the street to take a last look at our home. And the other kid 
said, "Come on." 

But Biff was not on the corner; it was nine o'clock before he came, we 
berating him, wearied and much of our enthusiasm gone. Biff telling a story 
of being unable to sleep and wandering to the river, where he saved a man 
from committing suicide. 



[Page 103 is missing.] 








Chapters Nine and Ten


The other kid said that Biff had schemed to help the family with the 
Winter's provisions, for the Allens, on a small income, lived in a large 
house. At first, we could not believe such scheming and ways so old possible 
in a boy of our age. But pickles on the table whenever we went through 
Biff's dining room. Playing in the yard, and embarrassed by stumbling over 
lobster cans. Soup cans everywhere, we pretending not to see. 

What was done to us that night, we do not remember; bread and water 
probably, as a punishment for staying away all day, for the little kid had 
not told. For, though They continued to beat the others, They struck us no 
more after the time we had forced them almost to the floor. 

And for a long time we sighed for our camp fires down along the Hudson; the 
stolen rides on freight cars; battles with tramps; and then the sea, we a 
sailor, and the other kid a cabin boy, we protecting him from brutal 
captains. Always protecting someone in our dreams. There was a little girl 
on the next block; we had saved her many time from wolves, tigers, Indians, 
and she saying no even, "Thank you," the next time we'd meet her. She in a 
white dress and blue sash; we all mud and very likely with a black eye. 
Trying to talk with her now and then, feeling awkward because of her self-
possessed ways, but feeling that she must admire us because we were an 
outlaw in the neighborhood. We marvelled at little girls, and had little 



[Page 105 is missing.] 



beat him into insensibility; no, we'd have the little kid of a big, noble-
looking man do the beating, for three against one would not be fair. Anyway, 
all our dreams seemed to end in violence in some form. 

Then in real life again, and, hearing their voice, we would scowl or would 
try to be very quiet to please them. 

Playing ball in the big lot on Hudson Avenue, with wagons of a stranded 
circus all around, or in the Capitol Park, with its earth worn hard and 
stony, the remains of an iron fence on a base of crumbling marble, and the 
ruins of the old, brown-stone Capitol. We interested in all buildings half 
torn down, liking to see the kinds of wall paper people had, tracing 
staircases by streaks on walls where people would not keep to the bannister, 
as we were taught to at home. Sent to church every Sunday morning, we, the 
other kid, and the little kid, too. Sent over to the Dutch Reformed Church, 
where there were inclined planes of stone by the stoop, which were very good 
to slide down. But going to Mason's with our ten cents, buying contrabands, 
wandering during church hours. Going to the river to marvel at the high 
water mark on a corner building, the normal surface far below. Looking at a 
grain elevator. Why should grain be elevated? We often hoisted things. But 
why should grown people elevate grain? Then all three holding hands, the one 
in the middle shutting his eyes, the others leading him in devious ways to 
have him guess what part of the city he was in. He'd guess "Post Office," 
and there he'd be in the lumber yard. Which was almost as interesting and 
astonishing as it would be to take a balloon and guess, "Maryland" and find 
Labrador. 

Always wanting something; and not a cent from Them. Hearing that we could 
get a stuffed penguin for a dollar, a quarter down and the rest in easy 
payments. Our mind could hold nothing but 



[Pages 107 to 112 are missing.] 



arms offensively. A dime off for shovelling snow when he was told to shovel 
snow, sitting down, looking on, making a good bargain, as a good business 
man should, having ten cents worth of work done, and having twenty cents 
worth of pleasure seeing us do it. Fearful humiliation at times, but we were 
willing to do anything to make the collection wholly ours. 

At the table. They saying, "Who's making that noise?" The other kid guilty; 
looking significantly at us. And we, in a tired kind of way, feeling the 
awfulness of slavery, would answer, "Me." 

"Say `I.' Go upstairs." 

We going; the other kid crossing off another dime. He's a good, business man 
now; he was then. 

Trying to study, hating arithmetic except cancellation, which seemed like a 
game. Trying to understand decimals, then running to the street. Spending 
much time in new buildings, climbing ladders, sliding down ropes. And liking 
old buildings, coming down, making believe they were ruins, living many of 
the Waverly novels in an old frame house that had never held anything more 
romantic than two old maids. It's queer; there were old maids up the street 
and down the street, and we thought them creatures pitiable, contemptible, 
ridiculous, but nowadays there are no such old maids. 

And in the Capitol a good deal, daring and "stumping" one another to walk 
over beams high in the air; crawling through a long tunnel, filled with air 
almost suffocating. There was a flaw in the reputation of every boy that had 
not crawled through this tunnel, coming out gasping at the other side, stuck 
now and then, if he should be too fat a boy. Going down to the dynamos to 
have our knife blades magnetized. We had little red horse shoes, but it was 
more interesting to pick up tacks with a knife blade that we, ourself, had 
magnetized. 



[Page 114 is missing.] 



five more went out of sight. All taking turns in rowing except Billy 
Robinson, who played the mouth organ, which he thought should exempt him. 
Playing with hands caving around, "bringing in the bass" as giftless we 
longed to do, tried to do but could not do. Going in swimming and then 
running up and down the sands trying to be sunburned. Tortured with 
blistered backs, but proud of blistered backs, hoping the fiery red would 
turn brown. Having blisters on our hands from rowing, proud of the blisters, 
wanting them to become callouses right where the fingers begin. 

Every other Sunday morning, They would send us to the Post Office, a big 
building with a little street all its own beside it. White granite above but 
worn all discolored from the ground to the height of a man's shoulders. 
Loungers could sit or stand anywhere else but every unoccupied person in 
that vicinity had to lean against the Post Office. Granite blocks an ugly 
brown and shiny, a man with nothing to do, if as far away as Eagle Street, 
having to go and lean against the Post Office. City Hall, fine, restful 
churches, other broad walls attracting no one; men that had never written a 
letter having to lean against the Post Office. 

Sending us every other Sunday morning for the mail, for in assigning all 
tasks They were strictly impartial. Frowning and warning us, for we always 
took an hour longer than necessary. Punishment and warning were useless; 
we;d be certain to take that hour. Causing them great annoyance, but never 
causing them to swerve from their impartiality. We displeasing them, then 
the little kid displeasing them, then the other kid pleasing them, because 
he was less often bad. But in all the years of our boyhood never once did 
they show favoritism. We had to take that extra hour, for every string of 
snow 



[Pages 116 and 117 are missing.] 



Then trouble with Washington Av'ners. We invaded and defeated. Falling back, 
each unable to see much more than was occupying him, but feeling a spirit of 
general defeat. Breaking gradually and then giving away all at once. Each 
fearing to separate from the main body, for that might single him out for 
pursuit, or darting away anyway, hoping the enemy would continue after the 
rest. Panic-stricken, picturing far worse than wolves after us, bunching at 
the corner fence, in a scramble to get over, the strong pushing the weak. 
But, even in these moments, though hopping in nervousness, Crousey's fierce 
band almost upon us, we and the other kid would wait to lift the little kid 
over the fence; that little kid always tagging on behind. Then we'd be safe. 
Knowing just where barbed wires were torn down, just where fence boards were 
loose, where a tree would make climbing easier. Into the next yard; woman 
scolding. Over a shed; an indignant, old man threatening to shoot. Going on 
to a vacant lot; a trail of heads out windows. Then playing "Follow the 
leader," chasing away all the little kids except our little kid, who would 
sit apart, saying nothing, his eyes wide-open, seeing again the wonderful 
things we had done to the enemy. 

It was very good of the little kid to admire us but often we'd wish he'd 
tone down just a little of the admiration he felt. A taciturn, little kid, 
but sometimes talking recklessly. Taking a little walk, urged to have some 
excitement in his dark, uninteresting world. Throwing stones at a big boy. 
Then saying, "My brother can lick you." Positive we could lick grocery boys, 
messenger boys, all kinds of boys, and all kinds of boys at once. We were 
not positive of this; but then we'd rather die than lose anyone's 
admiration. 

And then the next day we'd meet the big boy. He'd say, "Do you want to make 
anything out of that?" And the little kid, 



[Page 119 is missing.] 



because we could resist nothing that we thought funny, always feeling this 
inability to conform with discipline and rules. But in geography, when told 
to draw a map, we would not make merely a scrawl, as would many pupils; we'd 
get a large sheet of drawing papers, and would trace squares to so to 
enlarge; with a shader, shading lakes and seas, pausing to imagine ourself 
on them; making mountains that looked like wooly caterpillars, pausing to 
fight bandits or hunt a panther. And in our compositions, we'd bring in 
facts from histories other [than] our school history, using the big words 
that we met with in our reading, proud of our compositions, sometimes having 
them read aloud, having the fact that we used our own words pointed out. 

After school, we'd run around in the streets, annoying people, climbing 
fences and ringing door bells, and would go home to read Greek and Roman 
history, French and German, and especially English history; mythology, 
biographies, and dime novels. We read hundreds of dime, or rather, half 
dime, novels, going with Whitey to a little, old store to exchange them. 
Slipping dime novels under our coats, when the little, old man in the 
little, old store was not looking. Whitey was a thoughtful boy, interested 
in chemicals and given to stealing. 

Our school reports were so bad that often we dared not show them at home. We 
learned forgery from Whitey, who had very good reports, but dared show only 
the very best. Taking an old signature, placing it over a report, tracing, 
rubbing hard, then going over what we pressed into the report. And, at home, 
it seemed as if nothing They could do could make us better. No longer 
beating us, but locking us in a little, dark room, giving us bread and 
water, sentencing us to several days or several weeks in solitude. Three 
times a day the door would be opened, and bread and water would be thrust 
into darkness. Three times day a bundle would come down the air shaft. At 
the table, the other kids would sit with handkerchiefs on their knees, 
clipping in things when no one was looking. So well did we take care of one 
another that when two were serving terms, the free one would be the starved 
one. 

Books coming down the air shaft, and matches to light the gas with. We 
sitting in the little window, writing our name and date on the white wall, 
adding, "Imprisoned here for doing nothing," which, we believe, is the view 
of most criminals. It would please us to write these things, feeling that 
many years later we, then a great, famous man, should like to come back and 
look at them. Often we'd have this feeling that the great, famous man would 
like to see relics of his childhood. Raising boards and nailing them down 
with paper soldiers or heroic marbles down under; slipping treasures down 
cracks between walls and floors. Our mind was filled with our reading of 
great men; positively we should be one of them. 

We in prison, and They turning the gas fixture so that we should be in 
darkness. A monkey wrench coming down the air shaft. Sitting sometimes with 
the gas burning but oftener in darkness, we a lazy kind of boy but tortured 
with the awfulness of doing nothing. Then singing to make the time hasten. 
Melancholy songs, we an unfortunate, little boy, persecuted for doing 
nothing, crying a little in sympathy with the poor, little boy, who had 
never done anything wrong. Then singing patriotic songs, half defiantly 
because of the noise we were making. About "Let freedom ring." Adding, 
"Freedom don't ring here." Hearing our new mother, under the air shaft, 
laugh at this. Then we, too, would laugh; for we could never be mean when 
others were not. 

Days seeming to go by, but only half a morning. We pacing 



[Pages 122 to 132 are missing.] 



And then they told us to go to the store Saturdays as well. Worse was to 
come. They made us work! Sent us up in the loft to scrape old labels off 
cans and paste on new labels of their own. They made us work! 

We were unhappy and the other kid was quite as unhappy. We scraping in 
resentful carelessness; the other kid scraping as well as he could. We 
rebelling and grumbling and shirking; the other kid rebelling and grumbling 
but scraping as well as he could. We sat in a corner; the other kid worked 
on. Then he refused to speak to us, because we made him do all the work. But 
why should either of us do any work except just enough to keep out of 
trouble? How lazy we did hate work! Other kid scraping as well as he could, 
refusing to speak. So we had to give in; anything, even work rather than not 
to be spoken to. 

Then both of us lazy. Sliding down the elevator cables, exploring from loft 
to loft, for the store was of two buildings with the elevator running 
between and landing broken through the walls. Exploring through dark canyons 
of boxes piled high, every floor a labyrinth of things good to eat. Breaking 
into cases, taking out cans. Eating a few cherries, then having a light 
lunch of peaches; trying a little asparagus, going on to apricots. Hammering 
cans flat so that we could take them out in our pockets. Then lazy and not 
bothering; just throwing the cans out on the roof. They'd be seen sometime, 
but we seemed to care nothing for detection so long as detection should not 
be right away. 

Throwing a plum pudding can with too much force. It rolled. It would fall 
int the street right by the side door. We ran back to our scraping; but the 
elevator cables were moving. Scraping furiously, but hoping anyway; cables 
glimmering up, and then the rust spot that meant that the elevator was a 
floor away. Tall hat appearing. Their face, chest, arms; still, we hoped. 



[Pages 134 and 135 are missing.] 








Chapters Eleven and Twelve 


We were almost fifteen years of age, and were to take the examinations for 
High School. We had been taught physiology only in a general way, but had 
dissected a good deal and had clumsily articulated many small skeletons. But 
as we read with the underlying desire to be thought remarkable, and as we 
fought upon the slightest provocation, for glory, we made our collection 
much larger than that of any other boy we knew, to be thought interesting. 
Behind everything that we did that was not of shiftlessness and indolence 
was the animating desire to be thought picturesque or interesting. Once we 
took Bob Pavey as one of the many partners that we could bear to have share 
wonders with us from one week to two weeks. In the physiology class, Miss 
Williams produced a number of phials of alcohol with specimens in them. 
Handing them out to have them passed from one to another. A toad's heart, a 
blue bird's liver, the alimentary canal of a lizard; all neatly labelled. We 
were furious; they were ours, and Bob had brought them to school. Then all 
the credit was his. Miss Williams saying, "Where is the heart? We had put it 
in our pocket. "Where is that lung?" It was in our pocket. "I see there is 
still a liver missing." In our pocket. Oh, fearful that credit for our work 
should go to another! 

"You have a queer way of acting with the property of others," said Miss 
Williams, sharply. 

We wanted to denounce our partner passionately. "They're mine," we said, 
sullenly. We were a forgiving kind of a boy, but, though that was fifteen 
years ago, we have not spoken to Bob Pavey since. He took credit that was 
our credit. 

Roman history, we had not studied in school at all. But we went to the High 
School, and taking examinations in Roman history and physiology, passed the 
Regents in both. But our regular examinations! We had kept just barely up 
with the class in grammar, and in arithmetic we were floundering as if 
something had been clipped from our mind. We knew; we could not pass. Then 
truly we should have to go and be a hermit away off somewhere. 

The afternoon of the day before examinations. The other kid was waiting 
outside school for us. Doing a little business in the meantime by trading 
cigarette pictures to our common advantage. Making the best bargain he 
could, for we liked to surprise each other. Dear me, how we liked surprises! 
We'd put candy away and pretend to forget it, just so that we could run 
across it some time and be surprised to find it. Telling ourself we had 
thirty cents in our bank, when we very well knew we had fifty cents, then 
trying to lose track. Just to surprise ourself. One of us telling the other 
of a very poor bargain, when he made a very good bargain; just to surprise 
the other a few minutes later. 

The cigarette-picture business was the best line that our firm had been in. 
Both partners thoroughly business-like, keeping books and balancing accounts 
to see whether they were prospering. Narrowly watching the market, keeping 
track of quotations during recess or trading hours after school. 



[Pages 138 to 147 are missing.] 



And behind the things that we dreamed of and the things that we did there 
was a new instinct, though really only our old posing to be picturesque in a 
further-on form. We no longer caring for glory as a fighter; all pleasure in 
the picturesque had settled in our diary. Finding interest in every 
happening, because it was something to write about. We, who were a collector 
of curiosities were a collector of incidents also. Trying to write about a 
hare and hound chase; our mind filled with impressions all mixed up. The 
start; the thundering of a score of feet on the park lake bridge; the 
lawlessness of running up the terrace, following paper strewn by lawless 
hares; the mystery of where we should end up, and a far-away pleasure in the 
marvel of following a trail that anyone but a blind man could have followed. 
Scenes changing swiftly; through a barnyard, over a lawn, through ploughed 
fields, over a fence, torn down in a rush and a scramble. 

Then trying to write, laboring with incidents, feeling an impression of 
force in the pack of hounds rushing together; or of mystery when at the foot 
of the hill and the hares may be just over the top or miles away. With these 
impression, we could do nothing. But telling particularly about some of the 
boys, having an instinct to bring characters into our story, like recurring 
mention of them, drawing a map of the course, marking every road and every 
field, trying to keep every feature within the scale of two inches to a 
mile. 

Or. Five of us out shooting; three of us our rival collectors. A black speck 
in a distant field; a dead crow. Then all five running. Three rivals passing 
us; we too heavy. And we were without a crow in our collection; we, who 
would stuff him; they, who would cut off wings, head and tail. Then the 
other kid bounding on ahead, stopping to trip the nearest rival, pouncing on 
the crow. Crow ours; but, quite as delighting, we had to race to write 
about. 



[Pages 149 to 151 are missing.] 



"We are indeed three brothers--" It was too much for the little kid. He 
leaned against a fence post, and put up his arm. He didn't want us to see 
him cry. 

And it was too much for us, for we were looking at the little kid, with his 
little arm up. 

Our same old madness; some of it because we were seized upon, some of it to 
impress the others. Crying that we should kill Them. Butting our head 
against a post. Knocked flat. Butting and falling in frenzy, trying to kill 
ourself or whatever the post meant to us. The other kid looked on, 
disapproving; the little kid stood erect, not a sign of anything at all on 
his face. 

We said no more. Covering the jars with earth; marking the place with 
pebbles for grave stones. All three sat on the piazza, saying very little. 
They took the little kid away. 

Evening. Going to the dining room. We had been crying all afternoon, and 
felt that if there were the slightest reference to the little kid we should 
break down. And we and the other kid paused in the doorway. For we saw 
something. What the other kid saw was a smaller table; a leaf had been taken 
out. This was sensible to the other kid; the table had been too large 
anyway. He went to his chair to eat his supper, which was what he had gone 
down to do. 

What we saw was the meaning of a vacant chair in the leaf that had been 
taken from the table. Littleness there brought to us littleness that was no 
longer there. We could not move and we could not speak. Just standing there, 
the other kid looking at us as if wondering what new flightiness could be 
the matter with us. 

They looked from the newspaper; we had feared that look once. 

We said, "Oh!" Just softly, because we were choked and quivering 



[Pages 153 to 155 are missing.] 



three found an old revolver of large calibre; snapping the rusty old 
revolver at one another. Just happening to aim at something else when it 
went off; nothing left of the something else. Slipping on roofs, but 
catching a projection just before going over. Beams and stones falling in 
the Capitol just where we had been a second before. Run over more than once, 
we lying quiet between wheels or runners. Breaking through the ice; someone 
throwing a skate strap to us. Here we are still. That in all this world 
there should be more than two or three grown men seems remarkable. 

Our first day in the High School. Boys everywhere; or, not boys everywhere, 
for girls everywhere. Girls with arms around one another; would have fallen; 
could not have walked without those arms around. Girls tottering and timid 
when alone; girls brave enough, chewing gum, afraid of no one when arms were 
around. Teachers bustling, trying to get things in order for the new year, 
bustling two minutes, and then taking twenty minutes to tell about their 
vacations, some of them tanned, a great degree of credit seeming to reflect 
from a great degree of tan. Older pupils coming in, looking curiously at us 
first years. Second years, juniors, even seniors coming in. We heard it 
whispered around when a genuine senior came in. He looked it; we marvelled. 
Genuine senior talking with a teacher; talking with another teacher; genuine 
senior talking actually with three teachers. Oh, never again would there be 
any running around the streets for us; no more peppering of windows with 
sling shots; we wanted to be a genuine senior and talk with three teachers. 
Or four teachers; we were always ambitious. We sitting there of no 
importance; no one paying us any attention. Well some day! 

There was one teacher that attracted us. There were three or four, or, 
rather, one or two that we liked to look at because they were pretty; we 
liked to see them fluttering around, but they did not attract us as did this 
teacher. She came in in a great rush, an old hat on one side of her head. 
Old hat on the other side; then over one eye. Grabbing the old hat, slinging 
it away anywhere. Getting right down to business, enrolling the first years. 
We liked the way she made the other teachers skip around; we liked her good 
humor and her quickness to anger; there was sympathetic gentleness with 
firmness behind. Theatric in her ways, rolling her eyes, making astonishing 
faces. We liked everything about her. Near by there was a boy that knew all 
about the High School; his sister was a teacher; his knowledge made him 
important among us. A bell ringing; boy whispering what it meant. Someone 
looking into the room; boy whispering just what celebrity. We asked him who 
this teacher was, and he was very glad to tell us and all others around that 
she was Miss North, who knew everything that had ever been heard of, and 
taught elocution in hours after school. 

And as Miss North attracted us, she seemed to notice us. For she sauntered 
down the aisle, singled us out, and took our hand without asking for it. 

Sitting in the seat in front; getting a stronger grip on our hand; and then; 

"Little boy, who are you? Who are you, serious-looking, little boy, with 
your great, big eyes, just like a great, big. solemn owl?" Awful faces made 
at us; eyes rolled at us; kindness and gentleness too. We wondered whether 
this were a little elocution for only unimportant us. We told her our name. 

Miss North said, "Oh!" She dropped our hand. "Oh, you're one of those 
cherubs, are you?" She rose and sauntered away. 

The boy that knew everything said, "Must know you. If you 



[Pages 158 and 159 are missing.] 



a bony part anyway." Waiting for an appreciat[iv]e laugh. Then saying 
sharply, "Do not be simply amused." 

We were not simply amused; we were interested, and had little experiments of 
our own at home. We'd look at clouds; we'd think. Or we'd look at water 
power; we'd think. And there was a strain of doubting in our thinking. There 
was the theory that one sees things really upside down; does in infancy, but 
by experience turns around. Proved by lines and angles. We wanted to argue. 
Putting the supposition of a man blind from birth; operated upon, then able 
to see. Would he see things upside down? It seemed to us pretty poor science 
not to know; there must have been such cases. Professor Overbunk answered 
unsatisfactorily, we thought, but he seemed pleased again. Still, we 
accepted almost all truths, thought there did seem to be something wrong 
with about every experiment. Professor Overbunk demonstrating that in a 
vacuum a bullet and a feather fall with equal speed. The bullet falling 
first. Teaching us that black is the absence of color and white is all 
colors. Mixing colors. Producing a brownish gray. Putting a black cloth and 
a white cloth out in the sun on window sill snow. As black absorbs heat, the 
black cloth would sink in the snow. White cloth making a decided impression; 
black cloth showing not a trace that it had been there. Very hard to teach 
truths when truth won't come right. 

Beginning our study of algebra, with the idea that letters are used instead 
of numbers, wondering how much "a" time[s] "b" could be. Learning 
definitions, learning that "x" is the unknown quantity and that the little, 
top-knot numbers are exponents, having none of the trouble we had expected, 
Miss Alberts sending us to the black board, then forgetting all about us, 
reading Puck and Judge. 



[Pages 161 to 170 are missing.] 







Chapters Thirteen and Fourteen 



They would not leave us behind this Summer. We and the other kid were pretty 
poor property, something like waste property that, if cultivated, might 
after a while pay its own taxes. They arranged to take our new mother and 
their really valuable property, the commanding appearance, to a fashionable 
resort, and then arranged for us. They arranged generously enough, having us 
join the Y.M.C.A. to send us for a month to the Y.M.C.A. camp on Lake 
Champlain. And we were so pleased that we were friends with them again, both 
of us going around to get fishing tackle and everything else that would be 
needed. No more sullenness, we going down to their room where we had not 
been in a long time, to play chess, just as we had long before, talking 
about fishing and hunting, very good friends, everything forgotten and 
forgiven at last. 

A score of us in the train; train seeming to make up its mind never to 
start, then starting in fits and jolts. Passing many familiar scenes on the 
way to Saratoga, we pleased now and then to see something that we remembered 
having seen in former years. Getting to the tail-end of Lake Champlain, 
narrow and marshy with its log-choked stream leading to Lake George. 
Gradually widening, broken rocks scattered on the steep banks, as if waiting 
for a chain gang to come along to get to work. Small towns with circus 
posters all over walls and fences. Black and white desolation, where forest 
fires had raged. Farm houses, brooks, ponds, just the places where we'd like 
to get off, but the train rushing on. The rattle and blinking of windows 
when other trains passed, rails clicking, telegraph poles looming and 
passing in all the majesty of tallness speeding silently by. The whole 
morning gone, and still whirling Northward. Past Port Henry. Westport! All 
off! 

Piling into carts, seven miles along a road, and all off on a beach with a 
flock of sheep around, we marvelling that anything white and soft could be 
made from fleece of creatures so dusty and unkempt. And there was the little 
island. High and wooded against wideness and blueness. Older boys, who had 
gone ahead to build and prepare, waiting in boats. We admiring them, for 
they were pioneers, wondering whether we could get so brown and 
disreputable-looking, resolving to wear no hat. And there was Harry Hickey, 
our old enemy, who had continued his enmity in school. But this was not in 
school; this was out in wideness and blueness with greenness all around, 
where we'd have grub together and bunk together and be all of one "crowd". 

Harry put out his hand. He said, "How are you?" We shook hands, and we, too, 
said, "How are you?" He taking our baggage, carrying it to a boat. Once we 
had hit him in the eye, but he was carrying our baggage, and everything was 
all right. Little waves tapping on big rocks there away up North made us 
feel that it was very pleasant to be friends 

Wonderful things for us to write about in our diary, we breathing 
picturesqueness as well as air, trying to impart some of the 
picturesqueness, but lamely recording only bare facts. 

Going on a tramp through wilderness and over mountains to Old White Face. 
Twenty of us, with blankets in army rolls, under one arm and over the 
shoulder on the other side, as good as uniforms, feeling that the blankets 
were interesting because they were "army rolls" and not just common rolls. A 
real guide in front. Getting all played out; the other kid looking tired, 
but keeping up bravely, paying not much attention to each other at first, 
but drawing together when tiredness came. Then running in advance to wait, 
doing a good deal of work for only a little rest. Stopping to cook dinner in 
a real camp-fire, finding the joy in remoteness that we had longed for when 
tin cans or piles of ashes had been always near. 

Wading in a stream, finding that in a few minutes our feet were as good as 
ever. Falling in smartly, and off again. Passing through small villages, 
bracing up to make a fine appearance, wishing we had a fife and drum corps 
in front, but pleased with our own banner carried by one of the big boys. We 
were soldiers or explorers; we were whatever it pleased us to be; mountain 
peaks, sunshine, brooks, and trees telling us in chorus but each with the 
charms of its own voice that in all life there is nothing like this nearness 
to life. 

Leaving the road, which had dwindled to ruts with grass between. We were in 
the North Woods! Where the Deerslayer had followed trails, where the French 
and the Indians had fought the Colonists. Struggling through underbrush, and 
then on sunny slopes snatching at wild, little strawberries as we tramped 
on. Among tall trees, softness underfoot. Into an upright fringe of the 
blotchy whiteness of birch. Peeling off white bark, pink inside, looking 
like a page from our diary, with dashes along in lines. A brown forest in 
front and behind a forest green on its weather side. The startling of things 
hidden and then suddenly seen. Far enough away to satisfy anyone. 

But then picking up an old envelope. Someone had been there before. Annoyed 
with the envelope, but keeping it to send to the man it was addressed to; 
he'd be pleased to have something of his that had lain in the North Woods; 
he'd marvel that it should be sent back to him after the experiences of all 
that time. 

Kicking the leaves that had been green, were brown, and would be soggy black 
mass underneath, hoping to stumble across Indian relics. Wishing some Indian 
had been so thoughtful as to leave lying around a few old relics that he did 
not want. But we'd be thoughtful; stealing away during a rest, to bury 
whatever we could find in our pockets, even pennies, for someone to find 
maybe a thousand years later and be pleased with. 

In density, in tallness, and then coming out into openings, all openings 
looking much alike; rolling ground, clumps of bushes, and bare spots of rock 
poking through. Straight over, as if directed by sign posts, into the forest 
again, Old Dug, the guide, going on in an unhesitating line, following a 
trail that we could not see but were pleased with, because it was not a path 
but a trail. Old Dug knocking over a woodchuck. A real guide shooting with a 
real Winchester. Giving us the woodchuck. Woodchuck becoming heavier and 
heavier, we clinging to it, feeling that we should throw away our blanket 
first, only the blanket was an "army roll", and our interesting appearance 
would be marred without it. Skinning the woodchuck while going along, other 
kid holding the fore feet, we stumbling and jabbing dangerously. 

Mistiness of coming evening; clumps of spectral pines and the unknown all 
around; whisperings and sighings. Loneliness that could not be loneliness 
with twenty in the band. The horrors of a night in a forest diluted into 
pleasure, as some thing repulsive may be a perfume when refined. 

Leaving the woods at New Russia, right on schedule time, we marvelling that 
there should be anything of schedules and regularity where all was 
wilderness to us. We in the Keene Valley, the wonders of everything we had 
read of valleys crowding around. Sleeping in a barn; just like tramps; 
jumping into hay, expecting to sleep right away, astonished to learn that 
one may be too tired to sleep right away. 

Off next morning; up the mountain, coming to a little lake, stowed away in a 
pocket in lofty rock. Finding an old scow, and paddling out, perch swarming 
so that with several hooks on a line we could catch two at a time. Nothing 
but a drop of depth and clearness with bushes in a fringe around, caught 
there on the mountain side. We poking through the tangle, thinking it a 
likely place for curiosities. Fallen trees, depths of old leaves, the 
wonderfulness of everything as everything had always been. And then a pile 
of fish scales! Someone had been there before. The old scow had seemed as if 
belonging to the scene. But fish scales! Always someone there before. 

We on a mountain summit, looking down into the valley, and away off at 
another mountain; patchwork of different-colored farms, clouds casting 
fantastic shadows here and there. We feeling high and god-like; the man in 
the dark-green farm was in sunshine, not knowing that the man in the light-
green farm could see nothing but clouds. But we knew. Farms struggling up 
just so far, and then again everything just as it had always been; trees 
seeming uniform in bushy greenness, and not some tall, some stunted, some 
fallen, as on our mountain. 

Climbing on a boulder to get to the very summit and feel exalted. Initials 
cut in the rock. Someone there before. And no place on top for our name. We 
were half playing and half in earnest; we wedged in a stick with a bit of 
writing floating out in space above all initials. We would have our name 
highest of all! 

Camping out in a tent; everything we had longed for. Stiff and chattering in 
the early morning fog; just as we had often wanted to be. Off again. 
Tramping back, singing songs that made the tramping easy. "John Brown's 
Body" alone was good for almost a mile. His body a-mouldering in the grave; 
we and his soul marching on. 

Evening on the island. All of us around the fire. Urging Old Dug to tell us 
stories. Old Dug with long legs in long boots, long body and long face, 
seeming mostly longness and the rest Adam's apple. Telling his experiences 
in New York. Yes, that was interesting, but had he ever shot a bear? Tell us 
a story. Oh, yes, he knocked over a bear now and then or caught one in a 
trap. We wanted a story? Well, there were his troubles with furniture on the 
installment plan. But had he ever seen a panther? Do tell us a story! Oh 
panthers were common enough in his early days. A story? Well, his wife had a 
tea party now and then, but after all there was never very much going on 
where he lived. 

Why, he never said "b'ars" for bears. It seemed wrong. A panther was only a 
"cat" and not a "painter." That seemed very wrong. Old Dug would have been 
much more interesting, if he had read of fishing and hunting instead of 
having fished and hunted all his life. 

Around a real camp fire, shooting sparks making the pine needles crackle 
overhead, the older boys with banjos and guitars, singing songs we had never 
heard before. They were songs that breathed something new into our life, or 
breathed upon and aroused something that had always been. Singing, "My 
Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," and "Goodnight Ladies." We wanted someone in a 
white dress and a blue ribbon to sing "Goodnight Ladies," to, and then go 
away "o'er the deep, blue seas." 

We'd think of the little girl in the next block; that next block so many 
miles away. Wishing she could see us with our broad, cowboy-kind of a hat. 
Wishing she could hear us sing, though we could not sing as the older boys 
sang. They had a strange, wonderful way that moved us, made us feel gentle 
and want to be good, filling our mind with pictures of our comradeship out 
there among pines with water all around, then thrilling us with ambition to 
be famous and do wonderful things some day. It was singing that was new to 
us; not singing straight alone, all the same way, but one going down and 
another going up. We learned that this was bass and tenor; couldn't 
understand how it was done, but wished that little girl in that far away 
block could hear us, not knowing but what we were singing that way. If she 
could only see us, we were sure she would be quite stupified with 
admiration, for we had walked where Indians had walked, we were on familiar 
terms with a real guide, and we had seen bear marks on a tree. We trying to 
sing tenor. Bill, a big boy we admired very much telling us to shut up and 
stop screeching. Then we were unhappy. Bill hitting us a fearful blow in the 
ribs. Then we were happy. Because he meant he was sorry he had spoken 
sharply. 

And these young fellows made us feel like just a little kid, we with 
capabilities for admiring quite as strong as our desire for admiration. 
Bringing out sort of a feminine attitude in us. We becoming drowsy, leaning 
against big Bill's shoulder. Bill saying, "Go to sleep, kid." Gentle 
pleasure upon us that he should call us "kid." Listening to his voice 
rolling away down deep. Some day our voice would be deep; some day everyone 
would be proud of us; some day-- Oh, some day! 

Knowing not much about ideals those days, but feeling a dozen around us. How 
we wanted to be like Bill and Harry and Jimmie 



[Pages 178 and 179 are missing.] 



Statue of Liberty, her torch drooping, knowing not what to do. For what can 
even Statues of Liberty do when boys are bold? 

We wishing that we, too, had the courage to talk and laugh around the fire; 
there was a girl of about our own age with whom we should very much have 
liked to talk and laugh with. We were afraid. All we could do was to sit on 
a log and look noble, and then, feeling too young and an outsider, went down 
to look after the boats. 

Then everyone was ready to leave, promising to call again, at which the 
Statue of Liberty's torch flared. Rowing away. Singing, "Good Night, 
Ladies!" And we thrilled with something new in our life. It was romance. 
Feeling it in the voices on the water, feeling a possession of meaning in 
our being in darkness with the light on shore left slowly behind. 

These are the things that made us go away somewhere to write in our diary. 
Urged to write of darkness and light left behind. Unable to; writing 
instead, of filling a fish with a pound of shot and betting it would weigh 
more than a larger fish. Having an impression of the way singing made us 
feel; writing of pouring molasses into Crayley's shoes. 

Rowing, we with little liking for the labor of rowing. Playing baseball as 
well as the others but excelling in swimming. In fact, they called us 
"Froggy." Which we did not resent, though all other nicknames had enraged 
us, for "Froggy," seemed an honorable title. Diving with our hands behind 
us, going down like a pointed stick; someone throwing in clam shells, 
fluttering in all directions, we getting everyone on our way up. Liking to 
swim under water in the creek, drifting with the current, seeing weeds and 
pebbles on the bottom go by. Lying lazily in the water, three hundred feet 
deep, our arms folded, our legs idle, going almost to sleep, a small surf 
playing on our island of a face. Rising and falling in the rollers of a 
steamer, waiting for the second set of rollers long afterward. 

Now and then we would leave the camp fire, and row away alone. To be 
horrified. Water by night would make us shrink and shudder, though not in 
physical shrinking and shuddering. Not open water, we paddling along, liking 
to trail our hand in the warmth of cold water under still colder air. But 
when we were alone on water dark in the shadow of rocks or trees. Feeling 
treachery and awfulness; ripples glittering in an evil gleaming at us. Or in 
a patch of weeds. Floating foulness; all the mystery and fearfulness of the 
Sargasso Sea condensed there for us; squirming tentacles, alive and writhing 
to clutch and drag us down. The superstitious part of us would be 
frightened; the intelligent part of us would be pleased with the unrealness 
of awfulness only imagined. Rowing away alone at night deliberately to be 
horrified. 

Just loafing around on the sands, trying to be tanned as much as the 
pioneers; sharp lines on our arms, where sleeves ended. Burying oneself in 
the sand, all dry on top, and all moist an inch or two down. Stretching out 
a set line at night. Mr. Roberts telling us that this was against the law. 
That was interesting; so in the evening we would stretch out a line to a 
float, having many pendant hooks. Going in the morning to see what we had 
caught; really expecting to pull up uncouth, fantastic creatures, if not 
monsters, just because they were caught in the night. 

Wandering around in a meadow, trying to follow a bee; turning over stones to 
see the beetles and the pale grass in dampness underneath; lying along the 
branch of a tree overhanging the creek, reading novels or dreaming of the 
extraordinary things we should do some day. 

Westport station again. "All aboard!" 



[Pages 183 to 185 are missing.] 



others with his sense of wonderfulness and difference. We wanted to walk 
home with her, but, hearing another boy tell her about his toboggan and 
invite her to go tobogganing with him, we lost courage. We had no toboggan; 
we had nothing. Feeling that it was disgraceful to let him cut us out. We 
let him; we had nothing. 

What we wanted was a good suit of clothes to go to school in. Many of the 
boys had suits of black cheviot, which distinguished them as being of what 
seemed to us the black cheviot caste. That was the caste we wanted to be of. 
We knew that They were prosperous, and it seemed natural that we should have 
wants in proportion; but one of the "boys" in the store had a son dressed 
better than we and the other kid. 

And then our first whole suit with long pants in it. It was dark brown with 
faint, yellow stripes. The menagerie that was we then included a zebra. Suit 
so tight that there we were with big, fat legs again, and the brown came off 
on our hands; still, at last we were homogeneous. It was not altogether 
pleasing to be a zebra, but then that was better than having the hybrid's 
lonely, unclassified feeling. A few weeks later, and there we had gone 
through the brown and yellow-striped seat of our trousers. No one mending 
us; we walking down a class room, with our back to the black board. One does 
feel so conspicuous when without a seat in one's trousers. 

Up in our room, looking at thread and needle, but feeling it beneath us to 
do any sewing. Progressive euchre down stairs; costly prizes; everything 
always done on a scale that was costly. We upstairs trying to sew rags 
together. And succeeding very well, we thought. Sitting down. Swish! Worn 
out cheapness could not keep those big, fat legs in. So we pounded a chair, 
just as, when a little boy, we pounded chairs 



[Page 187 is missing.] 



it was our own work. Dreading to get into trouble; still, we would not. 

And this flattering seemed to gather impressions from away back to our very-
little-boy days. When books in their own shelves, apart from the pleasing of 
their stories, had mystic charm so that we would sit and gaze upon shelves 
of volumes. When names of authors had meaning that no other names had in our 
seeing. We had always placed writing as the highest of gifts, thinking that 
only an author could be a genius, rating the inventor and the painter and 
the orator far below. Impressions gathering into idealizing and marvelling. 
Strengthened by our study of English literature. We looked upon suicide as 
wickedness; but the suicide of Chatterton was pathos, causing vividness of 
picturing that could never be forgotten. The misguided ways of doctors, 
lawyers, or business men were not to be tolerated, but the improvidence of 
Goldsmith was picturesqueness. We'd picture the days of Grub Street, 
admiring every character except Boswell. Boswell was a "supe"; "supes" we 
hated. But above poets, historians, lexicographers, we rated writers of 
fiction. Others were plodders; writers of fiction were magicians in our 
seeing. 

A teacher would ask some simple question in geometry; there were we silenced 
as if with a mind darkened. Asking about some perplexing kind of an 
accusative; we without a sign of intelligence. Teacher asking some question 
with the answer not in our school book, such as, "What great author once 
submitted drawings to Dickens, who rejected them?" Turning instinctively to 
us, for our hand would be sure to be up, we all eagerness, no lack of 
intelligence and no mind darkened. Obscure and trivial questions; we with 
the facts in our storehouse; our hand waving excitedly. 

Going over to the "club" in the afternoon. Up in the wrecked, top floor; no 
carpet left, nothing but barrenness, but new chairs and something new on the 
mantle piece to make wreck and ruin less uninviting. Having a little 
football or a little wrestling, but turning to other amusements. Matching 
pennies; losing all ours, and going to our aunt for more, she seeing nothing 
wrong in any kind of gambling. Then Mookey taught us poker. Mookey, who had 
spent a cent once, having no lack of money for poker. Not teaching us the 
finer points, but the other kid instinctively figuring out stratagems, 
teaching us. Then we knew as much as Mookey. Then Mookey came around with a 
faro board. Soon we learned too much of the law of average. Mookey bringing 
a roulette wheel of card board. 

But something was slipping from our life; it distressed us. A football 
knocked over some of our choicest livers; we were uninterested. Minerals and 
sea curiosities were covered with dust; we meant to spend a whole Saturday 
in house-cleaning. But didn't. And then spasms of renewed interest. We'd try 
to bring back all this that was slipping away. Forcing ourself to go 
shooting. Hearing a hidden bird whistle; no longer any thrilling. A glimpse 
of brilliant plumage; no exciting. We'd force ourself to the dreary work of 
making out a new catalogue; we'd have new labels printed, not liking to pay 
for them. Minerals and eggs had lost their special interest, which had made 
them seem far more than only minerals and eggs. 

We turned, in a way quite desperate to a new collection to bring back the 
wonders of the old collections. Our aunt had many valuable autographs, some 
of which had once been in a famous collection; letters from Franklin, Byron, 
Scott. We, too, collected autographs, sending to Amiens, France, asking 
Jules Verne for his. Jules Verne sent us a little letter in a hand so minute 
that we could get no one to translate it. And we sent to Oliver 



[Pages 190 to 210 are missing.] 








Tiffany Thayer's Prologue, Notes, and Epilogue



----------------------------------------------------------------------------
----


Thayer's Prologue 


THE FORTS OF ALBANY 


As nearly as I can piece it together without going to Albany, the founder of 
this prosperous line was Peter Van Vranken Fort, of Dutch extraction. He may 
have had a sister, whose name does not appear. She is deduced from two items 
in Fort's writings, mention of a great-aunt who lived in a hotel in 
Saratoga, where Charles was taken to visit her as a child. Reference is made 
to her fondness for gambling. On the other hand, this belle could have been 
a Hoy, but I rather think not. 

Peter married twice, as appears, but his first wife is not named. Whoever 
she was, she bore him two children, "Lil" and "Will". 

According to my correspondent, Lil married John Delehanty, also of Albany, 
"under very romantic circumstances at the Church of the Madeleine, in Paris. 
One child resulted from this marriage, Ethel. The marriage ended unhappily, 
Lil tossed her bonnet over the windmill, and later divorced her husband." 

This is probably the same John Delehanty, an attorney, who was named 
executor of the estate of C.N. Fort, the father of Charles. We have two 
letters written by Delehanty in 1913. 

The same correspondent states that Will Fort married Anna Baillie, of 
Albany, and died a few years after marriage, survived by his widow and one 
child, Marian. 

Just when is not stated, but Peter Fort was widowed of the mother of Lil and 
Will, and took a second wife, one Catherine Farrell of Brooklyn. Upon her 
also Peter Fort fathered two, one Frank and one Charles N. 

Frank married Margaret Downey or Dowling - or something similar - of 
Baltimore. "Two children resulted from this marriage, Mortimer and Pauline. 
The family lived in New York, on West End Avenue, about forty-five years ago 
(that is about 1910)." Indeed, we have a letter to our own Charles (Hoy) 
Fort, dated Nov 20/1910, written at 823 West End Ave., signed "Your ancient 
unckle (sic) Frank." 

Our good correspondent quoted above, one Mrs. Laurence T. Cashman, nee Mary 
Lowe, who is a grand-niece of Catherine Farrell, was under the impression 
that her mother's "Aunt Kitty" was the mother of our Charles, but Kitty was 
in fact his grandmother. 

Charles N. Fort was the youngest of Peter's children, but when old Peter 
V.V., came to die - apparently early in 1896 - Charles N., was running the 
wholesale grocery. 

Charles N. Fort - like his father - also married twice. His first wife was 
____________ Hoy. His second is not named. 

Charles N., fathered upon his first wife - Charles Hoy, Clarence N., and 
Raymond V. Fort, in that order, beginning with our Charles, Aug. 6, 1874. 
Internal evidence indicates that Raymond was an infant - certainly no more 
than two years old - about 1880, and the same evidence indicates that the 
mother of those three boys was dead at that time, when Charles Hoy was about 
six ans. Not a vestige of memory of his mother remains in the documentation. 
His stepmother is prominently mentioned, well remembered, and tragically, 
for she lost the sight of both eyes. She is nowhere named. 

* * * 





MANY PARTS 





As it has been said, these raw materials for a life have been "edited" - not 
to say censored - by several other hands before mine, and the most drastic 
of all his editors was Fort himself. His first book-length MS - written by 
him about 1900, was more than 261 pages long. We know that because the last 
torn page of it in our possession is numbered "261", and it is incomplete. 
It is a sort of reminiscence covering the years of about 1880 to 1891, while 
Fort was growing from ca 6 ans to the age of 17. 



Probably what follows here was first entitled MANY PARTS, taking its name 
from that remark of Shakspere which runs: All the world's a stage --- and 
one man in his time plays many parts. 



We have that source in Fort's own hand, and shall advert to it shortly. 
First let us consider the fragmentary MS for its autobiographical value. 



Of the (at least) 261 pages, only 76 remain. In other words, the maturer 
Fort (or who else?) has extracted 185 pages of MS from the 261: and who can 
guess how many pages followed? 



We begin with the page numbered "12" because any that ever preceded that are 
now missing. 




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Thayer's Notes 



The following notes were included within Thayer's copy of the Many Parts 
manuscript. The numbers of the pages numbers given for their location and by 
Thayer refer to the original manuscript. 



End of page 13: 

Perhaps Charles is as old as 8 or 9 at the opening above. If so, the year is 
1882 or 1883, Observe, however, that "the little kid" is still in a baby 
carriage, and that is Raymond Fort, only 4 years young[er] than Charles. The 
character called "the other kid" is Clarence N. Fort, of an age between 
Charles and Ray. 

End of page 28: 

That is the end of Chapter Three, on p. 28. The grandfather referred to is 
Peter Van Vranken Fort, and "They" is the term invariably applied to the 
writer's father, Charles N. Fort. 

End of page 30: 

In the margins of this MS, Fort has made a few pencil marks at a much later 
date, mostly to identify the characters. Against the above mentions of his 
grandfather he has twice written "P.V." in the margin. Observe also the 
beginnings of Fort's interest in the Arctic and the aurora. 

End of page 41: 

In the margin just above, opposite "They", meaning his father, Fort has 
written "C.N." three times. 

The observations upon numerousness of the soldiers, and the practice of 
marking them for honors for their inanimate achievements, are echoed in 
Fort's later years by his invention of Super-checkers and his practice of so 
marking the "men" in that game. I shall advert to this at an appropriate 
time. 

End of page 51: 

One wonders if the word "Fell", above in the direct quote of the 
grandfather, indicates that P.V. spoke with a Dutch accent. Probably not. 
More likely it is Fort's typographical error. 

End of page 66: 

The above mention of "Nick" arouses the question if the father of the three 
boys may not have been named Charles Nicholas Fort, and the "Nick" adopted 
as our Charles grew up. 

The "other grandfather" mentioned in the last line above is J. Hoy. 

At the start of page 79: 

In the margin Fort has written "Saratoga". 

End of page 82: 

Above is the first mention of the second wife of Charles N. Fort, the 
stepmother of the boys. One estimates that Charles Hoy was about 13 at the 
time of her coming, the year about 1887. 

Apparently the lady came on the scene willing and trying to make friends 
with her young charges, but it is significant that the next seven pages of 
MS - 83 to 89 incl. - are missing. 

End of page 95: 

P. 96 is missing - with its details of this Nineteenth Century rumble by 
teenagers. 

End of page 104: 

That is the end of p. 104. Probably the altercation between Charles N. and 
Charles Hoy was described earlier, on pages now missing. Here, however, we 
observe that enmity between father and son has been growing. 

In the third paragraph above, we probably have our first glimpse of Anna 
Filan who became Fort's wife. She has said she met him when he was 13, so 
this maiden in the blue sash is very likely she. 

End of page 133: 

Reader's of Fort's Wild Talents will recall that in this relabelling 
process, described above, he pasted peach labels on other fruits and 
vegetables, "like a scientist". 

End of page 137: 

The year must be 1889. 

End of page 148: 

"The little kid" - that is Raymond Fort - is sent away, and one would like 
to know why, but we are not likely to learn. All three brothers - indeed all 
these principals - are long since dead. 

End of page 182: 

Observe, above, Fort's early awareness of his bent for humor, here stated 
with regret. He wished to record genuine emotion in his diary but ended up 
recounting practical jokes. 

End of page 189: 

That is the end of p. 189, and Fort has begun to foreshadow himself. At age 
15 or so, already bookstruck and trying to write, the first famous author he 
asks for an autograph is Jules Verne. 

One wonders what became of that precious letter. It is not here. Probably 
Fort sold it one stony day. 

End of page 211: 

That is the end of p. 211. It verifies the use of "Nick" as a nickname for 
Charles N., and we see that Fort's first job on a newspaper - the Albany 
Democrat - was obtained by his father's pull, not by the writer's compulsive 
energies of by any specific triumph. 

End of page 216: 

Some examples of Fort's handwriting clearly demonstrated the temporary 
effect of the editorial regimen mentioned above. Alas, the effect was all to 
ephemeral. 

N.B. Select examples for facsimile reproduction. 

End of page 244: 

There ends p. 244, and it is slightly confusing. "Our other grandfather" was 
J. Hoy, whom I have assumed to be Fort's maternal grandfather. Perhaps this 
old man's eagerness to have "all his children" with him applied equally to 
his son-in-law, Nick. 

We have just one fragment of a letter signed by J. Hoy, and since it is 
undated and unrelated to any other event known to me, I insert it here as 
possibly apropo to the above. 

The message is written in pencil on both sides of a piece of "tablet" paper 
ruled in light blue. 

(p.) 3) It's getting a little too warm already (.) Write to me immediately 
on receipt of this letter and tell me you're coming (paper torn off at this 
point...on the reverse side -) 

Will you write me and tell me what you are doing, and how you are getting on 
/ Your Grandfather / J. Hoy (could be "I." Hoy). 
End of page 257: 

So, Charles, at 17, is paying a secret visit to his brother Ray, at an 
unnamed village upstate. On the way, the passing landscape, as viewed from a 
seat on the day-coach steps, causes him to write the sexiest line he ever 
penned as long as he lived. " - - making us think of our latest Madeline, 
wishing we were wandering through the hills with her." 

Obviously our hero is going the way of all newspaper men, drinking, gambling 
and flirting from Madeline to Madeline. One is pleased to learn that Charles 
has lost his virginity - perhaps on some of those missing pages - but the 
intelligence is startling, coming, as it does, so casually. And what has 
become of Anna in her pretty blue sash? 

The year is 1891. 

Page 258 is missing: pages 259, 260, and what is left of 261 - torn in half 
- follow. 

End of page 261: 

That is all. 




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Thayer's Epilogue 


Fort rewrote the book, Many Parts, more than once, and we shall follow its 
career as his stock in trade when that time comes. The portion reprinted 
above is tendered as so much auto-biography. 

Perhaps it was the result of Fort's visit to his brother Ray that caused him 
to leave him. Several statements of his indicate that he was living in New 
York City in 1892. On the other hand, two years after Fort's death his widow 
Annie, told Theodore Dreiser this anecdote which was taken down by Dreiser's 
secretary, Evelyn Light, in September, 1933. 

A.F.: "Charles was a wild kid, He could not bear to be told he must do 
anything...They had a stepmother, and lived in a beautiful home in 
Albany...Charlie came home one night at 10 o'clock, and found he was locked 
out. The house had a big red glass door, and he took a stone and smashed 
every bit of the glass. They made him sleep in the basement with the 
servants, and when he came up, they would not let him have breakfast with 
the family for a week. The servants were forbidden to pass him anything, but 
when the cake came around one day, he made a grab for the plate, and the 
stepmother tried to grab it away from him. Charlie took the cake and threw 
it at his stepmother. Then there was a fight. Charlie went to his 
grandfather's, where his father had to pay board for him until he was of 
age, and then Charlie went abroad. That is how he broke away." 

Which grandfather that was is not indicated, and the term "of age" may be 
used loosely. If 21 ans is indicated, Fort did not attain that majority 
until 1895, but if 18 ans will suffice, he had barely a year to wait after 
his visit to Ray which he knew was going to cause a storm. 

Later in the same interview Annie told Dreiser that Fort was 18 when he came 
to New York City. 

Annie was not a very reliable witness, but this latter statement is borne 
out in one of Fort's letters written in 1915, reproduced in full farther 
along in this volume. Fort's assertion there is that he sold things to a 
N.Y.C. syndicate "when I was 17 in Albany," and at 18 (1892) was a 
contributor to "the Brooklyn edition of the World," and at 19 (1893) became 
"editor" of a new paper, the Woodhaven Independent, published in or near 
Jamaica, Long Island. 

Now, the contributions to the N.Y.C. syndicate and even those to the 
Brooklyn edition of the World might have been made by mail, but to edit a 
Long Island newspaper - even a weekly - Fort must have been living in the 
vicinity. 

The earliest acceptance we have is on the stationary of the New York 
Journal, April 27, 1897, but earlier ones surely have been lost, because 
Fort was a going concern by that time, and known to have been living in New 
York City for more than a year. He received mail at 170 East 32nd Street, 
dated July 21, '96. It is a postcard, which reads: "Fort:- we are at 322 
Columbus Ave - Cor 75th. Stay away - Christopher." 

I have no idea who Christopher was but suspect he was a kinsman or friend 
from Albany. 





Extracts from Wild Talents


From the Start of Chapter 3 

In days of yore, when I was an especially bad young one, my punishment was 
having to go to the store, Saturdays, and work. I had to scrape off labels 
of other dealers' canned goods, and paste on my parent's label. 
Theoretically, I was so forced to labor to teach me the errors of deceitful 
ways. A good many brats are brought up, in the straight and narrow, somewhat 
deviously.

One time I had pyramids of canned goods, containing a variety of fruits and 
vegetables. But I had used all except peach labels. I pasted peach labels on 
peach cans, and then came to apricots. Well, aren't apricots peaches? And 
there are plums that are virtually apricots. I went on, either 
mischievously, or scientifically, pasting the peach labels on cans of plums, 
cherries, string beans, and succotash. I can't quite define my motive, 
because to this day it has not been decided whether I am a humorist or a 
scientist. I think that it was mischief, but, as we go along, there will 
come a more respectful recognition that also it was scientific procedure.

From the Start of Chapter 4

Not a bottle of catsup can fall from a tenement-house fire-escape, in 
Harlem, without being noted — not only by the indignant people downstairs, 
but — even though infinitesimally — universally — maybe — 

Affecting the price of pajamas, in Jersey City: the temper of somebody's 
mother-in-law, in Greenland; the demand, in China, for rhinoceros horns for 
the cure of rheumatism — maybe — 

Because all things are inter-related — continuous — of an underlying oneness 
— 

So then the underlying logic of the boy — who was guilty of much, but was at 
least innocent of ever having heard of a syllogism — who pasted a peach 
label on a can of string beans. 

All things are so inter-related that, though the difference between a fruit 
and what is commonly called a vegetable seems obvious, there is no defining 
either. A tomato, for instance, represents the merging-point. Which is it — 
fruit or vegetable? 






Raymond N. Fort's Recollections of Charles Hoy Fort 



The following fragment appears to have been a pencilled draft of a letter 
written by Raymond N. Fort, sometime after Annie Fort's death in 1937, and 
was made available with some clarifications of the writing by his 
granddaughter. 



"I have not got any of my brother's notes, manuscripts, or data, as he left 
these to the Fortean Society upon his death several years ago and his widow, 
who died recently bequeathed what was left of them to Theodore Dreiser. 

"I don't think that I can be of much assistance to you as we did not keep in 
very close touch with one another. However I might help you out a little in 
regard to his early life. 

"My brother was born August 6, 1974 and was the oldest of three brothers. 
His father and grandfather were in the wholesale grocery business, an old 
established firm of P.V. Fort & Son. 

"The early life was uneventful, and he passed through the grammar and high 
school as the other boys of his age. In the later years at high school he 
showed marked ability in writing and was considered to be quite a wit among 
his friends. While in high school he wrote numerous stories and sent them to 
various magazines and they were accepted and published. These stories were 
all based upon some actual happening, some school boy prank or an expedition 
in the country. He would take some little incident and embellish it and make 
a story of it and then we would all have the pleasure of reading about 
ourselves in a magazine. He always used our real first names. 

"After leaving school he obtained a position as a reporter on the Brooklyn 
Eagle and was with this paper a while, when he and another employee of the 
same paper started a newspaper of their own somewhere on Staten Island but 
after a while they ran afoul of some of the local big shots and that ended 
that venture. 

"Then my brother got the wanderlust and for a number of years traveled all 
over the globe paying his fare on slow coasting boats when he was able to 
and working his way at other times. In this way he saw a large part of the 
globe, most of the countries in So. America and also Europe and Africa. He 
was in South Africa for quite a while and I remember him telling of one 
incident that happened there. He said or did something to a Frenchman who 
did not like it and immediately he was challenged to a duel. As my brother 
had never handled a sword and was not very expert with fire arms, he did not 
know just what to do but accepted the challenge anyway. As he was the 
challenged party he had the choice of weapons and after giving it a good 
deal of thought he decided upon fists and so informed the Frenchman's 
seconds. Of course they objected very strenuously but my brother would not 
move from his position or would he let the challenge be withdrawn. The fight 
came off, and the Frenchman was pretty well battered up as my brother knew 
how to use his fists and possessed unbounded courage. After this he wandered 
around a while longer and then came back to N.Y., where he met a girl who he 
knew in his younger days in Albany and married her. He then settled down and 
started to write but it was hard going and he worked at most anything that 
he could get in order to live and write. He endured all the hardships that 
are coincident to getting a foothold. 

"You probably know the rest. He spent years abroad studying in all the big 
libraries of Europe and England and then settled in N.Y. again where he 
wrote several books and had them published. 

"I wish that I could help you out more but as I said before I can only help 
you about his early life. If there is anything else that you would like to 
know. I will be glad to be of assistance to you."