I had seen him at his
parting of the ways, how resolutely he had abandoned his open-air
habits, everything in fact that had been his delight, to settle down
to sheer hard mental work, and this at our home on the pampas where
there were no masters, and even the books and instruments required for
his studies could only be procured with great difficulty and after
long delays. I remember one afternoon when we were gathered in the
dining-room for tea, he was reading, and my mother coming in looked
over his shoulder and said, "You are reading a novel: don't you think
all that romantic stuff will take your mind off your studies?"
Now he'll flare up, said I to myself; he's so confoundedly independent
and touchy no one can say a word to him. It surprised me when he
answered quietly, "Yes, mother, I know, but I must finish this book
now; it will be the last novel I shall read for some years." And so it
was, I believe.
His resolution impressed us even more in another matter. He had an
extraordinary talent for inventing stories, mostly of wars and wild
adventures with plenty of fighting in them, and whenever we boys were
all together, which was usually after we had gone to bed and put the
candle out, he would begin one of his wonderful tales and go on for
hours, we all wide awake, listening in breathless silence.
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