me few children skip ropes, or
step carefully across the cracks of the sidewalk for fear they spoil their
suppers. Ah!--a bat goes by--a glove--a ball! And now from a vacant lot
there comes the clamor of choosing sides. Is no mention to be made of
you--you, "molasses fingers"--the star left fielder--the timely batter?
What would you not give now for a clean bill of health? You rub your
offending nose upon the glass. What matters it with what deep rascality in
black mustachios you once strutted upon your boards? What is Hecuba to you?

My own first theatre was in the attic, a place of squeaks and shadows
to all except the valiant. In it were low, dark corners where the night
crawled in and slept. But in the open part where the roof was highest,
there was the theatre. Its walls were made of a red cambric of a flowered
pattern that still lingers with me, and was bought with a clatter of
pennies on the counter, together with nickels that had escaped my
extravagance at the soda fountain.

A cousin and I were joint proprietors. In the making of it, the hammer and
nails were mine by right of sex, while she stitched in womanish fashion on
the fabrics. She was leading woman and I was either the hero or the villain
as fitted to my mood. My younger cousin--although we scorned her for her
youth--was admitted to the slighter parts. She might daub herself with
cork, but it must be only when we were done. Nor did we allow her to carry
the paper knife--shaped like a dagger--which figured hugely in our plots.
If we gave her any word to speak, it was as taffy to keep her silent about
some iniquity that we had worked against her. In general, we judged her to
be too green and giddy for the heavy parts. At the most, she might take
pins at the door--for at such a trifle we displayed our talents--or play
upon the comb as orchestra before the rising of the curtain.

The usual approach to this theatre was the kitchen door, and those who came
to enjoy the drama sniffed at their very entrance the new-baked bread. A
pan of cookies was set upon a shelf and a row of apples was ranged along
the window sill. Of the ice-box around the corner, not a word, lest hunger
lead you off! As for the cook, although her tongue was tart upon a just
occasion and although she shooed the children with her apron, secretly she
liked to have them crowding through her kitchen.

Now if you, reader--for I assume you to be one of the gathering
audience--were of the kind c