Life — March 25, 1899 — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

264 Characters I've Tried to Be. OBINSON CRUSOE was the earliest 27 and ea t. It was only a matter of physical prow- ess, because my brother younger smaller, and ho had to content himself with be- was and ‘LIPE:* in a vacant lot, and made of old boards and abandoned oil-cloth, A stove of bricks supplied somo heat, and much more smoke than our green-tea cigaritos, Our ideal had been to return to the lair after our forays and smoke in luxurious ease while we planned still more desperate deeds; but the smoke fron the brick stove, and a parental inquiry for some cushions that had disappeared from the family parlor, dissolved the blood-curdling oaths which bound together “The Three Spaniards,” orously but impartially on bead and shins instead of, according to agreement, on a shield improvised from the tin cover of a wash-boiler, Horatius fought bravely io Macaulay’s majestic metro. Thehistorian- poet would have had touse adifferent kind of verse if Horatius had been slapped vigor- ously over the head with swords of lath, and banged viciously on the shins with broomstick spears, My career as a bridge- defender was a brief one, but it was re corded in black and blue for many a day. Some guiding spirit, with tho crafty design of civilizing ing my man Fri- day. With fa drygeods box for a cave, a cast- off rug, an atandoned theatro-lat and a bro- ken - ribbed. umbrella for costume, the family cat in itsown natural character,and the neighborhood dog in- vested by imagination with the attributes of the goat, there was nothing needed to com- pleto tho illusion but the ine vadin This defl- ciency supplied, though, by the tougher boys of the neighborhood, educations must neglected, for they saw noth- ing in my realization of a terary dream save a per- fectly legitimate target for the unripe fruit of the paternal apple tree, Those apples were very green and very bard,and of exnetly tho right sizo and weight to bo thrown accu- rately, I remember now my chagrin that Defoe had men- tluned no attack with such but far more vividly savages, was soon have been apples. into abrupt contact with different coming. parts of my youthful anatomy, One in particular destroyed ail my interest in Robinson Crusoe, and resulted Inter in a black eyo, with subsequent applications of brown paperand vinegar, with the maternal slipper properly applied as a counter-irritant. “Tho Throo Spaniards” was a moro complicated effort, I do not remember which ono of those gory individuals I became, but we three associate villains spent an enormous amount of effort in the construction of our lair, It was situate LIFE'S SAINTS OF THE FUTURE. 1. SAINT CHAUNCEY, ‘Then up spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the gate: “To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late "— but I don't believe Horatius would havé spoken up 80 quickly had ho known that tho advancing hosts wero boys with no idea of fighting fair under the Roman rules of thoring. Even Horatius would have yielded under blows which wero landed treach- the savage instincts of the boy, then turned my literary appetite in the direction of Lord Chesterfleld's letters. to bis son, The general impression seems to bo that the polite Earl failed ut- terly to make an Admirable Crichton of that son of his, and I am sure he did in my case, I tried conscientiously (for a very short time, how- ever) to become all that Ches- terfleld wanted his son to be, and pictured myself as grow- ing up to abound in all the graces and accomplisha.ents, Perhaps I did wash my faco more frequently as a result, and my finger-nails, doubtless, became less constantly mourn- ful in appearance; but the acquisition of a pony about that period brought on a re- lapse. That poor animal be- camo in rapid succession a mustang to my Apache, a Bucephalus to my Alexander, and a Rosinante to my Don Quixote. With lance in rest, I charged many an imaginary wind-mill and countless flocks of imaginary sheep. In earlier days I would havo compelled my brother on his pony to be my Sancho, but the lad had grown too big and strong, and his mind did not run in paths of literary fancy. Now came a change. She had read “Lucile” and adored it with all a schoolgirl’s in- tensity. Poetry, except of the martial sort, had never been much in my favor, but Meredith’s easy verso caught my ing fancy, and most carefully I marked each significant passage, so that afterwards she might read and know the sentiments that burned within, and which the bashfal- ness of my years kept me from express- ing in speech, Lord Alfred Vargrave I became, and stretched out in the grass, gazed at the moon until my bealthy organ-