AN IMPERFECT CONFLAGRATION


Early one June morning in 1872 I murdered my father--an act which made a
deep impression on me at the time. This was before my marriage, while I
was living with my parents in Wisconsin. My father and I were in the
library of our home, dividing the proceeds of a burglary which we had
committed that night. These consisted of household goods mostly, and the
task of equitable division was difficult. We got on very well with the
napkins, towels and such things, and the silverware was parted pretty
nearly equally, but you can see for yourself that when you try to divide
a single music-box by two without a remainder you will have trouble. It
was that music-box which brought disaster and disgrace upon our family.
If we had left it my poor father might now be alive.

It was a most exquisite and beautiful piece of workmanship--inlaid with
costly woods and carven very curiously. It would not only play a great
variety of tunes, but would whistle like a quail, bark like a dog, crow
every morning at daylight whether it was wound up or not, and break the
Ten Commandments. It was this last mentioned accomplishment that won my
father's heart and caused him to commit the only dishonorable act of his
life, though possibly he would have committed more if he had been
spared: he tried to conceal that music-box from me, and declared upon
his honor that he had not taken it, though I knew very well that, so far
as he was concerned, the burglary had been undertaken chiefly for the
purpose of obtaining it.