teacher, also had her worries.  She found that, in reading, whenever I came to words that were difficult or unfamiliar, I was prone to bring my imagination to the rescue and read from the picture.  She has laughingly told me, since then, that I would sometimes substitute whole sentences and even paragraphs from what meaning I thought the illustrations conveyed.  She said she not only was sometimes amused at the fresh treatment I would give an author’s subject, but, when I gave some new and sudden turn to the plot of the story, often grew interested and even excited in listening to hear what kind of a denouement I would bring about.  But I am sure this was not due to dullness, for I made rapid progress in both my music and my books.

And so for a couple of years my life was divided between my music and my school books.  Music took up the greater part of my time.  I had no playmates, but amused myself with games—­some of them my own invention—­which could be played alone.  I knew a few boys whom I had met at the church which I attended with my mother, but I had formed no close friendships with any of them.  Then, when I was nine years old, my mother decided to enter me in the public school, so all at once I found myself thrown among a crowd of boys of all sizes and kinds; some of them seemed to me like savages.  I shall never forget the bewilderment, the pain, the heart-sickness, of that first day at school.  I seemed to be the only stranger in the place; every other boy seemed to know every other boy.  I was fortunate enough, however, to be assigned to a teacher who knew me; my mother made her dresses.  She was one of the ladies who used to pat me on the head and kiss me.  She had the tact to address a few words directly to me; this gave me a certain sort of standing in the class and put me somewhat at ease.

Within a few days I had made one staunch friend and was on fairly good terms with most of the boys.  I was shy of the girls, and remained so; even now a word or look from a pretty woman sets me all a-tremble.  This friend I bound to me with hooks of steel in a very simple way.  He was a big awkward boy with a face full of freckles and a head full of very red hair.  He was perhaps fourteen years of age; that is, four or five years older than any other boy in the class.  This seniority was due to the fact that he had spent twice the required amount of time in several of the preceding classes.  I had not been at school many hours before I felt that “Red Head”—­as I involuntarily called him—­and I were to be friends.  I do not doubt that this feeling was strengthened by the fact that I had been quick enough to see that a big, strong boy was a friend to be desired at a public school; and, perhaps, in spite of his dullness, “Red Head” had been able to discern that I could be of service to him.  At any rate there was a simultaneous mutual attraction.