illiam, and Charles. Their mother
was a fine woman, but sometimes they wished she would not be quite so
strict. She used to say on Saturday afternoons: "Come, boys, empty your
pockets and gather up your toys; we will put the knives and marbles away
and get ready for Sunday." All day Sunday they were not allowed to read
any book but the Bible. But James liked the stories he found there, and
when he was only nine could say almost half the Bible by heart.

James was the oldest in the family. He was born in Lowell and was such a
cunning baby that everybody wanted his picture. One of his uncles, who
loved him dearly, used to say: "It's enough to make Sir Joshua Reynolds
(this was a great English painter, who had died years before) come out
of his grave to paint Jimmie asleep!" Jimmie had delicate features and
long, silky, brown curls that hung about his face. In among these was
one white lock that dropped straight down over his forehead. This looked
like a tiny feather. More than all his playthings he liked a pencil and
paper. From the time he could scribble at all he drew pictures of
everybody and everything in sight. These pictures were very good, and
when he was large enough to go to school the other children were apt to
ask him to make animals and birds for them on the blackboard.

Major Whistler soon sent for his family to join him in Russia. It was a
long, hard voyage there, and poor little Charlie died on the way. The
two other boys were better sailors and were as well as could be when
they met their father. They did enjoy the strange sights in St.
Petersburg! They were not long in getting acquainted with the little
Russian children or in learning the language. They went skating, dressed
in handsome furs; they learned the folk and fancy dances, joined in the
winter sports, and voted Russia a fine country. Still their parents did
not let them forget they were little Americans.

The climate did not agree with James, and every time he caught cold he
had touches of rheumatism, so that often he had to stay in the house and
have his feet put in hot water. Instead of making a fuss about this, he
used to call for pencil and paper and practise drawing feet until he
could make very perfect ones. Major Whistler sent him to the Art Academy
in St. Petersburg, where he was praised by his teachers. That old,
tiresome rheumatism kept bothering him, and by and by he had a long
rheumatic fever. He was a dear, patient boy, however, and