d fist now to his nose, and now to his jaw, to indicate to the
youngsters what he was going to do to them later on.

Those, and a hundred other little incidents, were as fresh in my
memory as if they had only occurred yesterday. His mother and I
recalled them over and over again. From the day John was born, it
seems to me the only things that really interested me were the things
in which he was concerned. I used to tuck him in his crib at night.
The affairs of his babyhood were far more important to me than my own
personal affairs.

I watched him grow and develop with enormous pride, and he took great
pride in me. That to me was far sweeter than praise from crowned
heads. Soon he was my constant companion. He was my business
confidant. More--he was my most intimate friend.

There were no secrets between us. I think that John and I talked of
things that few fathers and sons have the courage to discuss. He
never feared to ask my advice on any subject, and I never feared to
give it to him.

I wish you could have known my son as he was to me. I wish all
fathers could know their sons as I knew John. He was the most
brilliant conversationalist I have ever known. He was my ideal
musician.

He took up music only as an accomplishment, however. He did not want
to be a performer, although he had amazing natural talent in that
direction. Music was born in him. He could transpose a melody in any
key. You could whistle an air for him, and he could turn it into a
little opera at once.

However, he was anxious to make for himself in some other line of
endeavor, and while he was often my piano accompanist, he never had
any intention of going on the stage.

When he was fifteen years old, I was commanded to appear before King
Edward, who was a guest at Rufford Abbey, the seat of Lord and Lady
Sayville, situated in a district called the Dukeries, and I took John
as my accompanist.

I gave my usual performance, and while I was making my changes, John
played the piano. At the close, King Edward sent for me, and thanked
me. It was a proud moment for me, but a prouder moment came when the
King spoke of John's playing, and thanked him for his part in the
entertainment.

There were curious contradictions, it often seemed to me, in John.
His uncle, Tom Vallance, was in his day, one of the very greatest
football players in Scotland. But John never greatly liked the game.
He thought it was too rough. He thought any game was a poor game