, no praise, no tribute from
any source, that was so precious to me as this one was and still is. As
I read it _now_, after all these many years, it is still a king's
message to me, and brings me the same dear surprise it brought me
then--with the pathos added, of the thought that the eager and hasty
hand that sketched it and scrawled it will not touch mine again--and I
feel as the humble and unexpectant must feel when their eyes fall upon
the edict that raises them to the ranks of the noble.

Yesterday while I was rummaging in a pile of ancient note-books of mine
which I had not seen for years, I came across a reference to that
biography. It is quite evident that several times, at breakfast and
dinner, in those long-past days, I was posing for the biography. In
fact, I clearly remember that I _was_ doing that--and I also remember
that Susy detected it. I remember saying a very smart thing, with a good
deal of an air, at the breakfast-table one morning, and that Susy
observed to her mother privately, a little later, that papa was doing
that for the biography.

I cannot bring myself to change any line or word in Susy's sketch of me,
but will introduce passages from it now and then just as they came in
their quaint simplicity out of her honest heart, which was the beautiful
heart of a child. What comes from that source has a charm and grace of
its own which may transgress all the recognized laws of literature, if
it choose, and yet be literature still, and worthy of hospitality. I
shall print the whole of this little biography, before I have done with
it--every word, every sentence.

The spelling is frequently desperate, but it was Susy's, and it shall
stand. I love it, and cannot profane it. To me, it is gold. To correct
it would alloy it, not refine it. It would spoil it. It would take from
it its freedom and flexibility and make it stiff and formal. Even when
it is most extravagant I am not shocked. It is Susy's spelling, and she
was doing the best she could--and nothing could better it for me....

Susy began the biography in 1885, when I was in the fiftieth year of my
age, and she just entering the fourteenth of hers. She begins in this
way:

We are a very happy family. We consist of Papa, Mamma, Jean, Clara
and me. It is papa I am writing about, and I shall have no trouble
in not knowing what to say about him, as he is a _very_ striking
character.

But wait a minute--I will return to Su