tness I might live to attain, I knew very well that thus
far my claims to posthumous fame were ridiculously unfounded, and I
did not want to be laughed at for my vanity.

Spirit of all childhood! Forgive me, forgive me, for so lightly
betraying a child's dream-secrets. I that smile so scoffingly to-day
at the unsophisticated child that was myself, have I found any nobler
thing in life than my own longing to be noble? Would I not rather be
consumed by ambitions that can never be realized than live in stupid
acceptance of my neighbor's opinion of me? The statue in the public
square is less a portrait of a mortal individual than a symbol of the
immortal aspiration of humanity. So do not laugh at the little boy
playing at soldiers, if he tells you he is going to hew the world into
good behavior when he gets to be a man. And do, by all means, write my
name in the book of fame, saying, She was one who aspired. For that,
in condensed form, is the story of the lives of the great.

* * * * *

Summer days are long, and the evenings, we know, are as long as the
lamp-wick. So, with all my reading, I had time to play; and, with all
my studiousness, I had the will to play. My favorite playmates were
boys. It was but mild fun to play theatre in Bessie Finklestein's
back yard, even if I had leading parts, which I made impressive by
recitations in Russian, no word of which was intelligible to my
audience. It was far better sport to play hide-and-seek with the boys,
for I enjoyed the use of my limbs--what there was of them. I was so
often reproached and teased for being little, that it gave me great
satisfaction to beat a five-foot boy to the goal.

Once a great, hulky colored boy, who was the torment of the
neighborhood, treated me roughly while I was playing on the street. My
father, determined to teach the rascal a lesson for once, had him
arrested and brought to court. The boy was locked up overnight, and he
emerged from his brief imprisonment with a respect for the rights and
persons of his neighbors. But the moral of this incident lies not
herein. What interested me more than my revenge on a bully was what I
saw of the way in which justice was actually administered in the
United States. Here we were gathered in the little courtroom, bearded
Arlington Street against wool-headed Arlington Street; accused and
accuser, witnesses, sympathizers, sight-seers, and all. Nobody
cringed, nobody was bullied,