7. The Old Home

But whatever may have been my parents’ various disappointments on moving to the old Cassel homestead we all had at least one thing to be grateful for, the marked improvement in the health of my brother.

I have not said much in the foregoing pages about this lovable child. There was a difference of nearly six years in our ages and he had never been rugged enough to share much in my own activities.

This is not to say, however, that I had seen but little of him. I had read stories to him by the hour when he was sick-abed; nor had this ever been a tiresome task for me. Clyde was brighter than most youngsters of his age and the stories he enjoyed best were more adapted to a lad of my years than his.

One of his singular characteristics was his generosity. It is natural for little children to welcome the coming of Christmas and their own birthdays, mostly for the gifts they hope to receive. The first letter written by the average citizen is addressed to Santa Claus.

My unselfish little brother was always contriving gifts for the other members of our family. He anticipated our birthdays far in advance and began preparations for Christmas when the first leaves of autumn fell.

I well remember one occasion when my own ineptitude caused him great sorrow. He had planned to surprise me. Shortly after his own birthday in mid-June when he was four, Clyde had slipped away from the house long enough to buy a few pennies’ worth of candy. How he had managed to pull this off I do not recall, but by some hook or crook he had acquired this small bag of candy to present to his brother on his birthday in latter August, and it soon became evident that his agony of waiting for the day to come was devouring him piecemeal.

After an eternity or two it occurred to him that I should share his torture, so he took to dragging the little bag of candy, tied to a long string, through the room where I happened to be sitting. I pretended not to notice. Clyde continued his parade, back and forth, more slowly, each time a little closer to my feet as he passed.

When we discussed the incident later, Clyde agreed that where he made his mistake was in asking me to guess. His mission had been fully accomplished when he dragged the bag of candy through the room the first time. Sooner or later my curiosity would have broken me down.

In brooding over this unfortunate error on my own part I have always tried to excuse myself on the ground that I was deeply interested in the story I was reading, but I am still remorseful.

Clyde came to a full stop with his candy bag touching the toe of my shoe.

“What have you there in that bag?” I inquired.

“Guess!” said Clyde.

“Candy,” I said.

His pale little face fell, but presently lighted.

“You don’t know what kind it is,” he said, victoriously, as he made off with it.

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