hen I was developing from
childhood into young girlhood, were full of excitement, romance, and
expectations. But I looked upon them as a trying period which had to be
endured before I could devote myself entirely to my ambition. I was full
of both temper and temperament, and an unlimited supply of high spirits
which manifested themselves in various unusual ways--singing and acting,
idealizing myself as many of the heroines whose gracious images
intoxicated my imagination. At times I walked on air, and always my head
was filled with dreams and hopes of this marvelous career.

It was at this time that I wrote a play, "Rapunzel of the Golden Hair,"
based upon an old fairy story. As usual I wished always to be the
heroine, yet Fate had not bestowed the necessary golden locks upon me.
My dark hair was worn short, and I must have looked much like an impish
boy. Then, my dramatic vision had soulful eyes and an angelic
expression. But instead of looking like an angel I was more like a gypsy
at the distressing gosling stage, too undeveloped; yet I dreamed of the
times when I would appear before immense audiences as the beautiful
heroine of my dreams and hold them fascinated by my song and
personality. I always had the utmost faith in a certain power of
magnetism; it seemed as though from my youngest days I felt that I could
influence others, and often I experimented just to see what effects I
could produce.

The impulse to dramatize everything found an opportunity, when I was
about ten years old, in the arrival in town of the brother of a girl
friend. This boy, slightly older than I, had been educated in England
and had brought back exquisite manners and an English accent that
greatly impressed the young ladies of my class. I need hardly mention
the fact that these attributes were looked upon with contempt by the
masculine element, who had no small measure of derision for the youthful
Chesterfield. I had cared little for and never encouraged boy
sweethearts, but this youngster's exclusive admiration did arouse my
interest. I felt flattered for a short time. But alas! he was unmusical
to a degree, and companionship suddenly terminated, on my side, when I
found that he was to be neither subjugated by my singing nor thrilled
by my acting.

One day I rebuffed him when he tried to walk home with me after school,
offering to carry my books. Puzzled, he made a formal call on my mother,
doubtless with a view to a reconciliation, and