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