My baptism is an unpleasant memory. I was a little over four years of age. My brother was an infant. We were done together, and in our own home. Dr. Reid, a Presbyterian parson, baptized us. He was dining at our house. We were playing in the sitting room.

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Our district was much too genteel to settle disagreements by a black eye or vituperation. Troubles were rushed upstairs to the landlady. I wished my tenants would emulate my gas stove. In proud metallic lettering she proclaimed herself “Direct action” and lived up to it. How bothersome it was…

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It would not be fair to the House of All Sorts were I to omit describing its chief room–the Studio–around which the house had been built. The purpose of its building had been to provide a place in which I could paint and an income for me to live…

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