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Abednego！ Later on； when my father took me to the steel…works； and I
beheld with awe a huge pot filled with molten metal that ran out of it
like water； I asked himif I leaped into that stream； could God save me？
He was shocked。 Miracles； he told me； didn't happen any more。
〃When did they stop？〃 I demanded。
〃About two thousand years ago； my son；〃 he replied gravely。
〃Then；〃 said I； 〃no matter how much I believed in God； he wouldn't save
me if I jumped into the big kettle for his sake？〃
For this I was properly rebuked and silenced。
My boyhood was filled with obsessing desires。 If God； for example； had
cast down； out of his abundant store； manna and quail in the desert； why
couldn't he fling me a little pocket money？ A paltry quarter of a
dollar； let us say； which to me represented wealth。 To avoid the
reproach of the Pharisees； I went into the closet of my bed…chamber to
pray； requesting that the quarter should be dropped on the north side of
Lyme Street； between Stamford and Tryon； in short； as conveniently near
home as possible。 Then I issued forth； not feeling overconfident； but
hoping。 Tom Peters； leaning over the ornamental cast…iron fence which
separated his front yard from the street； presently spied me scanning the
sidewalk。
〃What are you looking for； Hugh？〃 he demanded with interest。
〃Oh； something I dropped；〃 I answered uneasily。
〃What？〃
Naturally； I refused to tell。 It was a broiling； midsummer day； Julia
and Russell； who had been warned to stay in the shade； but who were
engaged in the experiment of throwing the yellow cat from the top of the
lattice fence to see if she would alight on her feet； were presently
attracted； and joined in the search。 The mystery which I threw around it
added to its interest； and I was not inconsiderably annoyed。 Suppose one
of them were to find the quarter which God had intended for me？ Would
that be justice？
〃It's nothing；〃 I said； and pretended to abandon the questto be renewed
later。 But this ruse failed； they continued obstinately to search； and
after a few minutes Tom； with a shout； picked out of a hot crevice
between the bricksa nickel！
〃It's mine！〃 I cried fiercely。
〃Did you lose it？〃 demanded Julia； the canny one； as Tom was about to
give it up。
My lying was generally reserved for my elders。
〃N…no；〃 I said hesitatingly； 〃but it's mine all the same。 It wassent
to me。〃
〃Sent to you！〃 they exclaimed； in a chorus of protest and derision。 And
how； indeed； was I to make good my claim？ The Peterses； when assembled；
were a clan； led by Julia and in matters of controversy； moved as one。
How was I to tell them that in answer to my prayers for twenty…five
cents； God had deemed five all that was good for me？
〃Somesomebody dropped it there for me。〃
〃Who？〃 demanded the chorus。 〃Say； that's a good one！〃
Tears suddenly blinded me。 Overcome by chagrin； I turned and flew into
the house and upstairs into my room； locking the door behind me。 An
interval ensued； during which I nursed my sense of wrong； and it pleased
me to think that the money would bring a curse on the Peters family。 At
length there came a knock on the door； and a voice calling my name。
〃Hugh！ Hugh！〃
It was Tom。
〃Hughie； won't you let me in？ I want to give you the nickel。〃
〃Keep it！〃 I shouted back。 〃You found it。〃
Another interval； and then more knocking。
〃Open up；〃 he said coaxingly。 〃II want to talk to you。〃
I relented； and let him in。 He pressed the coin into my hand。 I
refused； he pleaded。
〃You found it；〃 I said； 〃it's yours。〃
〃Butbut you were looking for it。〃
〃That makes no difference；〃 I declared magnanimously。
Curiosity overcame him。
〃Say； Hughie； if you didn't drop it； who on earth did？〃
〃Nobody on earth；〃 I replied cryptically。。。。
Naturally； I declined to reveal the secret。 Nor was this by any means
the only secret I held over the Peters family； who never quite knew what
to make of me。 They were not troubled with imaginations。 Julia was a
little older than Tom and had a sharp tongue； but over him I exercised a
distinct fascination； and I knew it。 Literal himself； good…natured and
warm…hearted； the gift I had of tingeing life with romance （to put the
thing optimistically）； of creating kingdoms out of back yardsat which
Julia and Russell sniffedheld his allegiance firm。
II。
I must have been about twelve years of age when I realized that I was
possessed of the bard's inheritance。 A momentous journey I made with my
parents to Boston about this time not only stimulated this gift； but gave
me the advantage of which other travellers before me have likewise
availed themselvesof being able to take certain poetic liberties with a
distant land that my friends at home had never seen。 Often during the
heat of summer noons when we were assembled under the big maple beside
the lattice fence in the Peters' yard； the spirit would move me to relate
the most amazing of adventures。 Our train； for instance； had been held
up in the night by a band of robbers in black masks； and rescued by a
traveller who bore a striking resemblance to my Cousin Robert Breck。 He
had shot two of the robbers。 These fabrications； once started； flowed
from me with ridiculous ease。 I experienced an unwonted exhilaration；
exaltation； I began to believe that they had actually occurred。 In vain
the astute Julia asserted that there were no train robbers in the east。
What had my father done？ Well； he had been very brave； but he had had no
pistol。 Had I been frightened？ No； not at all； I； too； had wished for a
pistol。 Why hadn't I spoken of this before？ Well； so many things had
happened to me I couldn't tell them all at once。 It was plain that
Julia； though often fascinated against her will； deemed this sort of
thing distinctly immoral。
I was a boy divided in two。 One part of me dwelt in a fanciful realm of
his own weaving； and the other part was a commonplace and protesting
inhabitant of a world of lessons； disappointments and discipline。 My
instincts were not vicious。 Ideas bubbled up within me continually from
an apparently inexhaustible spring； and the very strength of the longings
they set in motion puzzled and troubled my parents： what I seem to see
most distinctly now is a young mind engaged in a ceaseless struggle for
self…expression； for self…development； against the inertia of a tradition
of which my father was the embodiment。 He was an enigma to me then。 He
sincerely loved me； he cherished ambitions concerning me； yet thwarted
every natural； budding growth； until I grew unconsciously to regard him
as my enemy； although I had an affection for him and a pride in him that
flared up at times。 Instead of confiding to him my aspirations； vague
though they were； I became more and more secretive as I grew older。 I
knew instinctively that he regarded these aspirations as evidences in my
character of serious moral flaws。 And I would sooner have suffered many
afternoons of his favourite punishmentsolitary confinement in my room
than reveal to him those occasional fits of creative fancy which caused
me to neglect my lessons in order to put them on paper。 Loving
literature； in his way； he was characteristically incapable of
recognizing the literary instinct； and the symptoms of its early stages
he mistook for inherent frivolity； for lack of respect for the truth； in
brief； for original sin。 At the age of fourteen I had begun secretly
（alas； how many things I did secretly！） to write stories of a sort；
stories that never were finished。
He regarded reading as duty； not pleasure。 He laid out books for me；
which I neglected。 He was part and parcel of that American environment
in which literary ambition was regarded as sheer madness。 And no one who
has not experienced that environment can have any conception of the
pressure it exerted to stifle originality； to thrust the new generation
into its religious and commercial moulds。 Shall we ever； I wonder；
develop the enlightened education that will know how to take advantage of
such initiative as was mine？ that will be on the watch for it； sympathize
with it and guide it to fruition？
I was conscious of still another creative need； that of dramatizing my
ideas； of converting them into action。 And this need was to lead me
farther than ever afield from the path of righteousness。 The concrete
realization of ideas； as many geniuses will testify； is an expensive
undertaking； requiring a little pocket money； and I have already touched
upon that subject。 My father did not believe in pocket money。 A sea
story that my Cousin Donald Ewan gave me at Christmas inspired me to
compose one of a somewhat different nature； incidentally； I deemed it a
vast improvement on Cousin Donald's book。 Now； if I only had a boat；
with the assistance of Ham Durrett and Tom Peters； Gene Hollister and
Perry Blackwood and other friends； this story of mine might be staged。
There were； however； as usual； certain seemingly insuperable
difficulties： in the first place； it was winter time； in the second； no
facilities existed in the city for operations of a nautical character；
and； lastly； my Christmas mo