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Their Yesterdays (Hardcover)
Harold Bell Wright, F. Graham Cootes; Created by Book Supply Company
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R918
Discovery Miles 9 180
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Ships in 12 - 17 working days
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TO MY SONS Other Books By the Same Author TO MY SONS THE CALLING OF
DAN MATTHEWS EXIT THE ETES OF THE WORLD GOD AND THE GROCERYMAN
HELEN OF THE OLD HOUSE THE MINE WITH THE IRON DOOR THE RE-CREATION
OF BRIAN KENT THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS A SON OF HIS FATHER THAT
PRINTER OF UDELLS THEIR YESTERDAYS WHEN A MANS A MAN THE WINNING OF
BARBARA WORTH THE UNCROWNED KING LONG AGO TOLD MA CINDERELLA By
Harold Bell Wright and John Lebar THE DEVILS HIGHWAY TO THE MEMORY
OF MY MOTHER Wharf House Jamaica, B. W. L May 21, 1932 If may be
glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High
souls y like those Jar stars that come in sight Once in a century
But better far it is to speak One simple word which now and then
Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of
men To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the
praise of art Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the
untutored heart LOWELL TO MY SONS TO MY S ONS GILBERT PAUL NORMAN
187 2 I 932 I THINK IT IS QUITE TIME THAT SOME ONE TOLD YOU boys a
few things about your father. I am well aware that for just any
person to act upon this suggestion might not be advisable but,
being your father, I feel myself qualified to make the required
revelations with a reason able degree of safety. Every son, it
seems to me, should know something about the life his father lived
before they became ac quainted. Usually there are reasons why he
should know about it from his father. Once a boy comes really to
know his father, it is different. After that, the less dad talks
about himself the better. I understand, too, that some fathers and
sons never do become acquainted. But we are not that sort which is
very fortunatefor me. So I propose to tell you some of the things
that happened to your dad before you came along and undertook the
heavy job of reforming him I mean, the job of making him over into
a passable sort of father. TO MY SONS Please do not understand that
I intend writing a regular autobiography with dates and names and
every thing for you boys or for anyone else. I should say not I can
imagine nothing more tiresome to do or more un necessary. So do not
be alarmed, I shall not tell you all I know about your father not
by a great deal. You may trust me to omit many things which you
would not enjoy knowing, which would profit you nothing, and of
which I am heartily ashamed. I shall tell the truth about what ever
I choose to tell you, but I shall be very careful what I choose to
tell. If what I am about to write should, in spots, bear a
chronological resemblance to autobiography, it will be only because
it happened that way and not be cause I am in the least
autobiographically minded. Life, you know, does not come all in one
piece like a cheese it resembles, more, linked sausages a series of
events all in a string. You boys know very well that the thought of
writing a book about myself would never have occurred to me. It was
John M. Siddall who, several years ago, first put the idea into my
head. Mr. Siddall was then editor of The American TMLaga zine. He
knew a little of my life before I became a writer. He was aware
that from my early boyhood I had grown up, for the most part,
homeless and friendless that I had spent much of my youth in a most
wretched and debasing environment j and that I had had no schooling
beyond the mere beginnings of an education. He said that TO MY SONS
because Ihad, from such unpromising conditions, gained the measure
of success which was mine it was my duty to tell the young men who
read The American how it all happened. I said I could not write
about myself that the thought of exhibiting myself in print to the
rude and uncharitable gaze of the public was abhorrent to me. I
argued that my life, whatever it had been, was my own private
business and that I proposed to keep it so. Sid, in his
characteristic way, insisted that I was all wrong...
It was winter -- cold and snow and ice and naked trees and leaden
clouds and stinging wind. The house was an ancient mansion on an
old street in that city of culture which has given to the history
of our nation -- to education, to religion, to the sciences, and to
the arts -- so many illustrious names. In the changing years,
before the beginning of my story, the woman's immediate friends and
associates had moved from the neighborhood to the newer and more
fashionable districts of a younger generation. In that city of her
father's there were few of her old companions left. There were
fewer who remembered. The distinguished leaders in the world of art
and letters, whose voices had been so often heard within the walls
of her home, had, one by one, passed on; leaving their works and
their names to their children. The children, in the greedy rush of
these younger times, had too readily forgotten the woman who, to
the culture and genius of a passing day, had been hostess and
friend.
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