I was very much ashamed of myself, and at night, after calmly reviewing the affair, concluded that there had been no reasonable cause for the accident, and that I ought to punish myself for so nearly losing my life from unmanly fear.  Accordingly at the very first opportunity, I stole away to the lake by myself, got into my boat, and instead of going back to the old swimming-bowl for further practice, or to try to do sanely and well what I had so ignominiously failed to do in my first adventure, that is, to swim out through the rushes and lilies, I rowed directly out to the middle of the lake, stripped, stood up on the seat in the stern, and with grim deliberation took a header and dove straight down thirty or forty feet, turned easily, and, letting my feet drag, paddled straight to the surface with my hands as father had at first directed me to do.  I then swam round the boat, glorying in my suddenly acquired confidence and victory over myself, climbed into it, and dived again, with the same triumphant success.  I think I went down four or five times, and each time as I made the dive-spring shouted aloud, “Take that!” feeling that I was getting most gloriously even with myself.

Never again from that day to this have I lost control of myself in water.  If suddenly thrown overboard at sea in the dark, or even while asleep, I think I would immediately right myself in a way some would call “instinct,” rise among the waves, catch my breath, and try to plan what would better be done.  Never was victory over self more complete.  I have been a good swimmer ever since.  At a slow gait I think I could swim all day in smooth water moderate in temperature.  When I was a student at Madison, I used to go on long swimming-journeys, called exploring expeditions, along the south shore of Lake Mendota, on Saturdays, sometimes alone, sometimes with another amphibious explorer by the name of Fuller.

My adventures in Fountain Lake call to mind the story of a boy who in climbing a tree to rob a crow’s nest fell and broke his leg, but as soon as it healed compelled himself to climb to the top of the tree he had fallen from.

Like Scotch children in general we were taught grim self-denial, in season and out of season, to mortify the flesh, keep our bodies in subjection to Bible laws, and mercilessly punish ourselves for every fault imagined or committed.  A little boy, while helping his sister to drive home the cows, happened to use a forbidden word.  “I’ll have to tell fayther on ye,” said the horrified sister.  “I’ll tell him that ye said a bad word.”  “Weel,” said the boy, by way of excuse, “I couldna help the word comin’ into me, and it’s na waur to speak it oot than to let it rin through ye.”