of loose pages. I was greatly confused,
expecting to get into trouble. He stood in the doorway looking at me
with some surprise, but the only thing he said after a moment of silence
was:
"Read the page aloud."
Luckily the page lying before me was not overblotted with erasures
and corrections, and my father's handwriting was otherwise extremely
legible. When I got to the end he nodded, and I flew out-of-doors,
thinking myself lucky to have escaped reproof for that piece of
impulsive audacity. I have tried to discover since the reason for this
mildness, and I imagine that all unknown to myself I had earned, in
my father's mind, the right to some latitude in my relations with his
writing-table. It was only a month before--or perhaps it was only a week
before--that I had read to him aloud from beginning to end, and to his
perfect satisfaction, as he lay on his bed, not being very well at the
time, the proofs of his translation of Victor Hugo's "Toilers of the
Sea." Such was my title to consideration, I believe, and also my first
introduction to the sea in literature.
If I do not remember where, how, and when I learned to read, I am not
likely to forget the process of being trained in the art of reading
aloud.
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