[Pg 16]

CHAPTER III.

AS A SHIFTLESS AND PURPOSELESS YOUTH.

Time passed on—that’s about all time does anyway—and my idle habits still clung to me. In fact they grew stronger and faster than I did. My moods and whims were subject to many changes, however. Something new and absurd entered my mind every day. It was usually concerning the reckless waste of energy. I never indulged in expletives or useless words; never said “golly,” “hully gee,” or anything that consumed time and strength without giving adequate return. Unconsciously I believed in the conservation of energy. “What’s the use?” seemed to be with me a deep-rooted principle.

Being now at an age when I could be of a little help doing odd chores and errands, it was a constant exercise of ingenuity to always have a plausible excuse for getting out of work. When there was a little labor scheduled for me, I began to work my wits overtime trying to see a way out of it. Sometimes I became very studious, hoping thus to[Pg 17] escape observation, or I put up the plea that I was sick, tired or worn-out. I had practiced woe-begone facial expressions until they came to my relief quite naturally. It seemed to me that on these occasions I was able to make my face assume an actual pallor. I put off beginning any task until the very last moment. If, however, all excuses failed and I was compelled to do some work, I hurried with all my might to get through with it and thus get the matter off my mind. I have since been told that this hurrying through a piece of work is characteristic of many lazy people; or they go to the other extreme and dally along, killing all the time they can.

Between the ages of ten and twelve I was an omnivorous reader. My literary bill-of-fare was far-reaching; I read everything. The family almanacs came in for a careful review. After reading the harrowing details of diseases, which could only be removed by the timely use of somebody’s dope, I always thought: “That’s just the way I feel.” But when I turned over a few pages and read some lady sufferer’s testimonial, I was sure that I felt very much the same myself. All these[Pg 18] symptoms, however, assumed a more tangible form as I advanced in years.

I liked fairy tales and kindred reading; the more audacious and unreal it was, the better satisfaction it gave me. With me everything was a sham; I manifested no interest in real and live things. Nothing but the namby-pamby appealed to me. I now think that if at that time I could have been induced to exercise vigorously so as to get some good, red blood coursing through my veins I might have been different.

In my case my literary taste was decidedly detrimental to me. Before one has arrived at a discriminating age, he cannot sit down to every sort of literary pabulum regardless of consequences. Many parents seem to think the “Crack-went-the-ranger’s-rifle-and-down-came-another-Redskin” literature the only kind to be placed on the forbidden shelf. The inspiration to go out and shoot pesky Indians is healthy and commendable as compared with much other reading matter extant. Any literature that warps the imagination and weakens the will should be placed on the tabooed list. In my case, however, the best literature[Pg 19] failed to meet with any responses. Nothing was inclined to spur me into action. I did not care to read of great exploits; they gave me mental unrest. Once I read that a person by walking three hours a day would in seven years pass a space equivalent to the circumference of the globe. This thought staggered me and I believed there must be something wrong with a fellow who could conceive such a stupendous undertaking. Surely no one would think for a moment of putting it into execution! I also read with stolid indifference of the Herculean feats of labor performed by men known to history. For example, Demosthenes copied in his own handwriting Thucydides’ History eight times, merely to make himself familiar with the style of that great man. An incident that appealed to me in a more benign way was this:—

“Pray, of what did your brother die?” said the Marquis Spinola to Sir Horace Vere. “He died, sir,” was the answer, “of having nothing to do!”

That, I thought, must have been an easy death.