CHILDHOOD 



end of the roll was held in each hand; he told 

 me to watch while he slowly unrolled it. As I 

 looked intently, I saw a mouse, trembling with 

 fear, standing perfectly still for an instant on 

 the corner of the rug, where it had been im- 

 prisoned. 



Once before this it seems to me long before 

 we were at Clifton Springs, New York, when, 

 taking a drive with my father and mother, a red 

 squirrel ran along a stone wall or fence. This at 

 once excited me. My father had a gun, and step- 

 ping from the carriage, killed the squirrel, which 

 I was very anxious to get into my hands to look 

 at more closely. He examined it for a moment, 

 and for some reason, not caring to have me 

 handle the dead creature, but still not wishing 

 to disappoint me too much, he took out his 

 knife, cut off the bushy tail, and gave it to me. 

 I know it was a red squirrel because I know 

 exactly how it looked, the colors, the definite 

 dark stripe on its side, in fact, the whole scene 

 is clear in my mind. Even the knife I often 

 picture to myself; and only a few years ago I 

 described it to a cousin, much older than I, and 

 asked him if he could recall it. It was large, hav- 

 ing a long blade and white bone handle which was 

 stained yellow with age, and the blade had a curi- 

 ous, out-curved point. When I had mentioned it 

 to my cousin, he told me that he remembered per- 



