nless he be a
man without a sense of duty, in which case we are not supposed to envy
him. The firstborn of an indigent father inherits a double measure of
the disadvantages of poverty,--a joyless childhood, a guideless youth,
and perhaps a mateless manhood, his own life being drained to feed the
young of his father's begetting. If we cannot do away with poverty
entirely, we ought at least to abolish the institution of
primogeniture. Nature invented the individual, and promised him, as a
reward for lusty being, comfort and immortality. Comes man with his
patented brains and copyrighted notions, and levies a tax on the
individual, in the form of enforced cooeperation, for the maintenance
of his pet institution, the family. Our comfort, in the grip of this
tyranny, must lie in the hope that man, who is no bastard child of
Mother Nature, may be approaching a more perfect resemblance to her
majestic features; that his fitful development will culminate in a
spiritual constitution capable of absolute justice.

* * * * *

I think I was telling how I stayed at home in the winter, while my
sister helped or hindered my mother in her store-keeping. The days
drew themselves out too long sometimes, so that I sat at the window
thinking what should happen next. No dolls, no books, no games, and at
times no companions. My grandmother taught me knitting, but I never
got to the heel of my stocking, because if I discovered a dropped
stitch I insisted on unravelling all my work till I picked it up; and
grandmother, instead of encouraging me in my love for perfection, lost
patience and took away my knitting needles. I still maintain that she
was in the wrong, but I have forgiven her, since I have worn many
pairs of stockings with dropped stitches, and been grateful for them.
And speaking of such everyday things reminds me of my friends, among
whom also I find an impressive number with a stitch dropped somewhere
in the pattern of their souls. I love these friends so dearly that I
begin to think I am at last shedding my intolerance; for I remember
the day when I could not love less than perfection. I and my imperfect
friends together aspire to cast our blemishes, and I am happier so.

There was not much to see from my window, yet adventures beckoned to
me from the empty street. Sometimes the adventure was real, and I went
out to act in it, instead of dreaming on my stool. Once, I remember,
it was early spring,