The first years of my life were, in most ways, not unlike those of other American boys, except as a tendency to worry made them so.  Though the fact is now difficult for me to believe, I was painfully shy.  When first I put on short trousers, I felt that the eyes of the world were on me; and to escape them I hid behind convenient pieces of furniture while in the house and, so I am told, even sidled close to fences when I walked along the street.  With my shyness there was a degree of self-consciousness which put me at a disadvantage in any family or social gathering.  I talked little and was ill at ease when others spoke to me.

Like many other sensitive and somewhat introspective children, I passed through a brief period of morbid righteousness.  In a game of “one-old-cat,” the side on which I played was defeated.  On a piece of scantling which lay in the lot where the contest took place, I scratched the score.  Afterwards it occurred to me that my inscription was perhaps misleading and would make my side appear to be the winner.  I went back and corrected the ambiguity.  On finding in an old tool chest at home a coin or medal, on which there appeared the text, “Put away the works of darkness and put on the armour of light,” my sense of religious propriety was offended.  It seemed a sacrilege to use in this way such a high sentiment, so I destroyed the coin.

I early took upon myself, mentally at least, many of the cares and worries of those about me.  Whether in this I was different from other youngsters who develop a ludicrous, though pathetic, sense of responsibility for the universe, I do not know.  But in my case the most extreme instance occurred during a business depression, when the family resources were endangered.  I began to fear that my father (than whom a more hopeful man never lived) might commit suicide.

After all, I am not sure that the other side of my nature—­the natural, healthy, boyish side—­did not develop equally with these timid and morbid tendencies, which are not so very uncommon in childhood.  Certainly the natural, boyish side was more in evidence on the surface.  I was as good a sport as any of my playfellows in such games as appealed to me, and I went a-fishing when the chance offered.  None of my associates thought of me as being shy or morose.  But this was because I masked my troubles, though quite unconsciously, under a camouflage of sarcasm and sallies of wit, or, at least, what seemed to pass for wit among my immature acquaintances.  With grown-ups, I was at times inclined to be pert, my degree of impudence depending no doubt upon how ill at ease I was and how perfectly at ease I wished to appear.  Because of the constant need for appearing happier than I really was, I developed a knack for saying things in an amusing, sometimes an epigrammatic, way.  I recall one remark made long before I could possibly have heard of Malthus or have understood his theory regarding birth rate and food supply.  Ours being a large family of limited means and, among the five boys of the family, unlimited appetites, we often used the cheaper, though equally nutritious, cuts of meat.  On one occasion when the steak was tougher than usual, I epitomized the Malthusian theory by remarking:  “I believe in fewer children and better beefsteak!”