boys in spite of their parentage, and I liked them even while I
gloried in their cuts, bruises, and dirt. At that time I was wearing
a necktie and had my shoes polished but, even so, I yearned to join
with them in their debauch of sand, mud, and general indifference to
convention. They are fine, upstanding young chaps now, and of course
their mother thinks that her scolding, nagging, and baiting made them
so. They know better, but are too kind and considerate to reveal the
truth to their mother.

Even yet I have something like admiration for the ingenuity of my
elders in conjuring up spooks, hob-goblins, and bugaboos with which
to scare me into submission. I conformed, of course, but I never
gave them a high grade in veracity. I yielded simply to gain time,
for I knew where there was a chipmunk in a hole, and was eager to get
to digging him out just as soon as my apparent submission for a brief
time had proved my complete regeneration. They used to tell me that
children should be seen but not heard, and I knew they wanted to do
the talking. I often wonder whether their notion of a good child
would have been satisfactorily met if I had suddenly become
paralyzed, or ossified, or petrified. In either of these cases I
could have been seen but not heard. One day, not long ago, when I
felt at peace with all the world and was comfortably free from care,
a small, thumb-sucking seven-year-old asked: "How long since the
world was born?" After I told him that it was about four thousand
years he worked vigorously at his thumb for a time, and then said:
"That isn't very long." Then I wished I had said four millions, so
as to reduce him to silence, for one doesn't enjoy being routed and
put to confusion by a seven-year-old.

After quite a silence he asked again: "What was there before the