y had
been fond of literature and the higher arts, but now, having no use for
them, had lost interest therein.

I was discontented and restless, and longed unendurably to be out in the
stream of life. "Action! Action! Give me action!" was my cry. My mother
did her best with me according to her lights. She energetically preached
at me. All the old saws and homilies were brought into requisition, but
without avail. It was like using common nostrums on a disease which could
be treated by none but a special physician.

I was treated to a great deal of harping on that tiresome old string,
"Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might." It was
daily dinned into my cars that the little things of life were the
noblest, and that all the great people I mooned about said the same. I
usually retorted to the effect that I was well aware that it was noble,
and that I could write as good an essay on it as any philosopher. It was
all very well for great people to point out the greatness of the little,
empty, humdrum life. Why didn't they adopt it themselves?

The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to the toad.

I wasn't anxious to patronize the dull kind of tame nobility of the toad;
I longed for a few of the triumphs of the butterfly, decried though they
are as hollow bubbles. I desired life while young enough to live, and
quoted as my motto:

Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast.
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod;
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.

Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack'd and old,
To cherish the battered potter's clay
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and sage you seem;
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.

I had sense sufficient to see the uselessness of attempting to be other
than I was. In these days of fierce competition there was no chance for
me--opportunity, not talent, was the main requisite. Fate had thought fit
to deny me even one advantage or opportunity, thus I was helpless. I set
to work to cut my coat according to my cloth. I manfully endeavoured to
squeeze my sp