I never studied geometry, or history, or Greek, and I studied scarcely any Latin, and not much arithmetic; and I never did anything with grammar, except to study it,—in fact, I always thought that this was the only purpose for which grammar was invented. But in spite of all this, I wanted to write a book, and resolved that I would write a book. Of course, as I am not a scholar, and have never learned anything out of books to tell about in other books, there was nothing for me to do but tell of the things that had happened to me. So I tell this story because it is the only story I know,—and even this one I do not know so very well. Sometimes I think I am one kind of person, and then sometimes I think I am another kind; and I am never quite sure why I do any particular thing, or why I do not do it, excepting the things I am afraid to do. But there is no reason now why I should not write this book, for I have money enough to get it printed and bound, and even if no one ever buys a copy still I can say that I have written a book. I understand that a great many books are published in this way, and I must have read a number that never would have been printed if the author had not been able to pay for them himself.
But I have put off writing this story for many, many years, until at last I am beginning to think of getting old; and if I linger much longer over unimportant excuses and explanations, I fear that I shall die, and future generations will never know that I have lived. For I am quite certain that no one else will ever write my story, and unless I really get to work, even my name will be forgotten excepting by the few who go back to my old-time home, and open the wire gate of the little graveyard, and go down the winding path between the white headstones until they reach my mound. I know that they will find it there, for I have already made my will and provided that I shall be carried back to the little Pennsylvania town beside the winding stream where I used to stone the frogs; and I have written down the exact words that shall be carved upon my marble headstone,—that is, all the words except those that are to tell of the last event, and these we are all of us very willing to leave to someone else.
But this story is about life and action, and boys and girls, and men and women; and I really did not intend to take the reader to my grave in the very first chapter of the book.
CHAPTER II
OF MY CHILDHOOD
I forgot to mention that my name is John Smith. Of course this is a very plebeian name, but I am in no way responsible for it. As long as I can remember, I answered to the call of “John” or “Johnny” many a time in my childhood, and even later, when I would much have preferred not to hear the call. My father’s name was John Smith, too. No doubt he, and his father before him, could see no way to avoid the Smith, and thought it could not make much difference to add the John. The chief trouble that I have experienced from the name has come from getting my letters mixed up with other people’s,—mainly my father’s,—which often caused me embarrassment in my younger days.
I have tried very hard to remember when I first knew my name was John. Indeed, I have often wondered when it was that I first knew that I was I, and how that fact dawned upon my mind. Over and over again I have tried to remember my first thoughts and experiences of life, but have always failed in the attempt. If I could only tell of my first sensations, as I looked at the blue sky, and felt the warm sun, and heard the singing birds in my infancy, I am sure they would interest the reader. But I can give no testimony upon these important points. I have no doubt, however, that when I looked upon the heavens and the earth for the first time I must have felt the same ignorance and awe and wonder that possess my mind to-day when I try to understand the same unexplainable mysteries that have always filled me with queries, doubts, and fears.
Neither can I tell just what I first came to remember; and when I look back to that little home beside the creek I am not quite sure whether the feelings that I have are of things that I actually saw and felt and lived, or whether some imaginings of my young brain have taken the form and semblance of real life.
I was only one of a large family, mostly older than myself; but while I was only one, I was the chief one, and the rest were important only as they affected me. It must have been the rule of our family that each of the children should have the right to give orders to those younger than himself; at any rate, all the older ones told me what to do, and I in turn claimed the same privilege with those younger than myself.
My early remembrances have little sequence or logical connection. I am quite unable to tell which events came first of those that must have happened when I was very young.
Among my earliest impressions is one of a hill in our back yard, and of our going down it to bring water from the well. I am sure that the hill is not a dream, for I have been back since and found it there, although not near as long and steep as it seemed in those far-off years. I remember that we children used to slide down this hill and then walk up again. Even then I was willing to do a great deal of work for a very small amount of fun. Somehow, in looking back, it seems as if I were always sliding downhill and tugging my sled back to the top in the dusk of the evening. I cannot quite understand how it is that I remember the evening best, but there it is as I unroll the scroll,—there are the dents in my memory, and there is the little boy pulling his sled uphill and looking in at the lighted kitchen window at the top. There, too, are the older and wiser members of the family,—those who have learned that the short sensation of sliding down the hill is not worth the long tug up; a lesson which, although I am growing old and gray, I never have been wise enough to learn. There are the older ones gathered around the table with their books, or busy with their household work,—the old family circle that I see so plainly now in the lamplight through the window, perhaps more plainly for the years that lie between. This magic circle was long since broken and scattered, and lives only in the memory of the man-child who knew so little then of what life really meant, and who knows so little now.