At length
towards midnight the flow of the narrative would suddenly stop, and
after an interval we would all begin to cry out to him to go on. "Oh,
you are awake!" he would exclaim, with a chuckle of laughter. "Very
well, then, you know just where we are in our history, to be resumed
another day. Now you can go to sleep." On the following evening he
would take up the tale, which would often last an entire week, to be
followed by another just as long, then another, and so on-our thousand
and one nights. And this delightful yarn-spinning was also dropped as
he became more and more absorbed in his mathematical and other
studies.
To this day I can recall portions of those tales, especially those in
which birds and beasts instead of men were the actors, and so much did
we miss them that sometimes when we were all assembled of an afternoon
we would start begging him for a story---"just one more, and the
longer the better," we would say to tempt him. And he, a little
flattered at our keen appreciation of his talent as a yarn-spinner,
would appear inclined to yield. "Well, now, what story shall I tell
you?" he would say; and then, just when we were settling down to
listen, he would shout, "No, no, no more stories," and to put the
matter from him he would snatch up a book and order us to hold our
tongues or clear out of the room!
It was not for me to follow his lead; I had not the intellect or
strength of will for such tasks, and not only on that memorable
evening of my anniversary, but for days afterwards I continued in a
troubled state of mind, ashamed of my ignorance, my indolence, my
disinclination to any kind of mental work-ashamed even to think that
my delight in nature and wish for no other thing in life was merely
due to the fact that while the others were putting away childish
things as they grew up, I alone refused to part with them.
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