Those who have read the “Child’s Garden of Verses” already know the doings of his childish days, for although those rhymes were not written until he was a grown man he was “one of the few who do not forget their own lives” and “through the windows of this book” gives us a vivid and living picture of the boy who dwelt so much in a world of his own with his quaint thoughts.

If his body was frail his spirit was strong and his power of imagination so great that he cheered himself through many a weary day by playing he was “captain of a tidy little ship,” a soldier, a fierce pirate, an Indian chief, or an explorer in foreign lands.  Miles he travelled in his little bed.

 “I have just to shut my eyes,
  To go sailing through the skies—­
  To go sailing far away
  To the pleasant Land of Play”

he says.

[Illustration:  No. 8 Howard Place, Edinburgh, Stevenson’s birthplace]

In spite of his power for amusing himself, days like these would have gone far harder had it not been for two devoted people, his mother and his nurse, Alison Cunningham or “Cummie” as he called her.  His mother was devoted to him in every way and encouraged his love for reading and story-making.  She kept a diary of his progress from day to day, and treasured every picture he drew or scrap he wrote.  Cummie came to him as a Torryburn lassie when he was eighteen months old and was like a second mother to him.  She not only cared for his bodily comforts but was his friend and comrade as well.  She sang for him, danced for him, spun fine tales of pirates and smugglers, and read to him so dramatically that his mind was fired then and there with a longing for travel and adventure which he never lost.  When they took their walks through the streets together Cummie had many stories to tell him of Scotland and Edinburgh in the old days.  For Edinburgh is a wonderful old city with a wonderful history full of tales of stirring adventure and romance.  “For centuries it was a capitol thatched with heather and more than once, in the evil days of English invasion, it has gone up in flames to Heaven, a beacon to ships at sea....  It was the jousting-ground of jealous nobles, not only on Greenside or by the King’s Stables, where set tournaments were fought to the sound of trumpets and under the authority of the royal presence, but in every alley where there was room to cross swords....  In the town, in one of those little shops plastered like so many swallows’ nests among the buttresses of the old Cathedral, that familiar autocrat James VI. would gladly share a bottle of wine with George Heriot the goldsmith.  Up on the Pentland Hills, that so quietly look down on the castle with the city lying in waves around it, those mad and dismal fanatics, the Sweet Singers, haggard from long exposure on the moors, sat day and night ’with tearful psalms.’...  In the Grassmarket, stiff-necked covenanting heroes offered up the often unnecessary, but not less honorable,