went back and dined with Mr. Addison.

Nothing new to-day; so I'll seal up this to-night. Pray write soon....
Farewell, deelest MD, MD, MD. Love Presto.

* * * * *

LYOF N. TOLSTOY

Childhood, Boyhood, Youth

Childhood (1852), Boyhood (1854), and Youth
(1855-57)--Tolstoy's first literary efforts--may be regarded
as semi-autobiographical studies; if not in detail, at least
in the wider sense that all his books contain pictures more or
less accurate of himself and his own experiences. No plot runs
through them; they simply analyse and describe with
extraordinary minuteness the feelings of a nervous and morbid
boy--a male Marie Bashkirtseff. They are tales rather of the
developments of the thoughts, than of the life of a child,
with a pale background of men and events. The distinct charm
lies in the sincerity with which this development is
represented.

_I.--Childhood_

August 12, 18--, was the third day after my tenth birthday anniversary.
Wonderful presents had been given me. My tutor, Karl Ivanitch, roused me
at seven by striking at a fly directly over my head with a flapper made
of sugar paper fastened to a stick. He generally spoke in German, and in
his kindly voice exclaimed, "Auf, Kinder, auf; es ist Zeit. Die Mutter
ist schon im Saal." ("Get up, children, it is time. Your Mother is
already in the drawing-room.")

Dyadka Nikolai, the valet of us children, a neat little man, brought in
the clothes for me and Volodya, who was imitating my sister's governess,
Marya Ivanova, in mocking, merry laughter. Somewhat sternly presently
Karl Ivanitch called from the schoolroom to know if we were nearly ready
to begin our lessons.

In the schoolroom, on one shelf was our promiscuous assortment of books,
on another, the still more miscellaneous collection which our dear old
tutor was pleased to call his library. I remember that it included a
German treatise on cabbage gardens, a history of the Seven Years' War,
and a work on hydrostatic. Karl Ivanitch spent all his spare time in
reading his beloved books, but he never read anything beyond these and
the Northern Bee. After early lessons our tutor conducted us downstairs
to greet Mamma.

She was sitting in the parlour, in front of the samovar, pouring out
tea. To the left of the divan was the old English grand piano, on which
my dark-complexioned sister, Liubotchka, e