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as I liked to be on a story with a 〃star〃 man when I was a reporter； they liked having a real 〃war〃 correspondent； take it seriously。 They were always wanting to know if it were like the Real Thing； and as I assured them it was； they were satisfied。 Some incidents were very funny。 I met a troop of cavalry this morning； riding away from the battle； down a crossroad； and thinking it was a flanking manoeuvre； started to follow them with the car。 〃Where are you going？〃 I asked the Captain。 〃Nowhere；〃 he said； 〃We are dead。〃 An Umpire was charging in advance of two troops of the 10th down a state road； when one trooper of the enemy who were flying； turned back and alone charged the two troops。 〃You idiot〃！ yelled the Umpire； 〃don't you know you and your horse are shot to pieces？〃 〃Sure； I know it；〃 yelled the trooper 〃but； this horse don't know it。〃
RICHARD。
Early in the fall of 1909 Richard returned from Marion to New York and went to Crossroads； where for the next three years he remained a greater part of the time。 They were years of great and serious changes for him。 An estrangement of long standing between him and his wife had ended in their separation early in 1910； to be followed later by their divorce。 In September of that year my mother died while on a visit to Crossroads。
After my father's death life to her became only a period of waiting until the moment came when she would rejoin himbecause her faith was implicit and infinite。 She could not well set about preparing herself because all of her life she had done that and； so； smiling and with a splendid bravery and patience she lived on； finding her happiness in bringing cheer and hope and happiness to all who came into the presence of her wonderful personality。 The old home in Philadelphia was just the same as it had been through her long married lifethat is with one great difference； but on account of this difference I knew that she was glad to spend her last days with Richard at Crossroads。 And surely nothing that could be done for a mother by a son had been left undone by him。 Through these last long summer days she sat on the terrace surrounded by the flowers and the sunshine that she so loved。 Little children came to play at her knee； and old friends travelled from afar to pay her court。
In the winter of 1910…11 my brother visited Aiken； where he spent several months。 The following June he went to London at the time of King George's coronation； but did not write about it。 Again； in November； 1911； he visited my sister in London； but returned to New York in January； 1912； and spent a part of the winter in Aiken and Cuba。 At Aiken he found at least peace and the devotion of loving friends that he so craved； but in London and Cuba； which once had meant so much to him； he seemed to have lost interest entirely。 But not once during these years did he cease working； and working hard。 On almost every page of his diary at this period I find such expressions as 〃wrote 500 words for discipline。〃 And again 〃Satisfaction in work of last years when writing for existence； has been up to any I ever wrote。〃
And in spite of all of the trouble of these days； he not only wrote incessantly but did some of his very finest work。 Personally I have never seen a man make a more courageous fight。 To quote again from his diary of this time： 〃Early going to my room saw red sunrise and gold moon。 I seemed to stop worrying about money。 With such free pleasures I found I could not worry。 Every day God gives me greater delight in good things； in beauty； and in every simple exercise and amusement。〃
Twice during these difficult days he went to visit Gouverneur Morris and his wife at Aiken； and after Richard's death his old friend wrote of the first of these visits：
〃It was in our little house at Aiken； in South Carolina； that he was with us most and we learned to know him best； and that he and I became dependent upon each other in many ways。 〃Events； into which I shall not go； had made his life very difficult and complicated。 And he who had given so much friendship to so many people needed a little friendship in return； and perhaps； too； he needed for a time to live in a house whose master and mistress loved each other； and where there were children。 Before he came that first year our house had no name。 Now it is called ‘Let's Pretend。'
〃Now the chimney in the living…room draws； but in those first days of the built…over house it didn't。 At least； it didn't draw all the time； but we pretended that it did； and with much pretense came faith。 From the fireplace that smoked to the serious things of life we extended our pretendings； until real troubles went down before themdown and out。
〃It was one of Aiken's very best winters； and the earliest spring I ever lived anywhere。 R。 H。 D。 came shortly after Christmas。 The spiraeas were in bloom； and the monthly roses； you could always find a sweet violet or two somewhere in the yard； here and there splotches of deep pink against gray cabin walls proved that precocious peach…trees were in bloom。 It never rained。 At night it was cold enough for fires。 In the middle of the day it was hot。 The wind never blew； and every morning we had a four for tennis and every afternoon we rode in the woods。 And every night we sat in front of the fire （that didn't smoke because of pretending） and talked until the next morning。
〃He was one of those rarely gifted men who find their chiefest pleasure not in looking backward or forward； but in what is going on at the moment。 Weeks did not have to pass before it was forced upon his knowledge that Tuesday； the fourteenth （let us say）； had been a good Tuesday。 He knew it the moment he waked at 7 A。 M。； and perceived the Tuesday sunshine making patterns of bright light upon the floor。 The sunshine rejoiced him and the knowledge that even before breakfast there was vouchsafed to him a whole hour of life。 That day began with attentions to his physical well…being。 There were exercises conducted with great vigor and rejoicing； followed by a tub； artesian cold； and a loud and joyous singing of ballads。
〃The singing over； silence reigned。 But if you had listened at his door you must have heard a pen going； swiftly and boldly。 He was hard at work； doing unto others what others had done unto him。 You were a stranger to him； some magazine had accepted a story that you had written and published it。 R。 H。 D。 had found something to like and admire in that story （very little perhaps）； and it was his duty and pleasure to tell you so。 If he had liked the story very much he would send you instead of a note a telegram。 Or it might be that you had drawn a picture； or； as a cub reporter； had shown golden promise in a half column of unsigned print； R。 H。 D。 would find you out； and find time to praise you and help you。 So it was that when he emerged from his room at sharp eight o'clock； he was wide…awake and happy and hungry； and whistled and double…shuffled with his feet； out of excessive energy； and carried in his hands a whole sheaf of notes and letters and telegrams。
〃Breakfast with him was not the usual American breakfast； a sullen； dyspeptic gathering of persons who only the night before had rejoiced in each other's society。 With him it was the time when the mind is； or ought to be； at its best； the body at its freshest and hungriest。 Discussions of the latest plays and novels； the doings and undoings of statesmen； laughter and sentimentto him； at breakfast； these things were as important as sausages and thick cream。
〃Breakfast over； there was no dawdling and putting off of the day's work （else how； at eleven sharp； could tennis be played with a free conscience？）。 Loving； as he did； everything connected with a newspaper； he would now pass by those on the hall…table with never so much as a wistful glance； and hurry to his workroom。
〃He wrote sitting down。 He wrote standing up。 And； almost you may say； he wrote walking up and down。 Some people； accustomed to the delicious ease and clarity of his style； imagine that he wrote very easily。 He did and he didn't。 Letters； easy； clear； to the point； and gorgeously human； flowed from him without let or hindrance。 That masterpiece of corresponding； the German March through Brussels； was probably written almost as fast as he could talk （next to Phillips Brooks； he was the fastest talker I ever heard）； but when it came to fiction he had no facility at all。 Perhaps I should say that he held in contempt any facility that he may have had。 It was owing to his incomparable energy and Joblike patience that he ever gave us any fiction at all。 Every phrase in his fiction was； of all the myriad phrases he could think of； the fittest in his relentless judgment to survive。 Phrases； paragraphs； pages； whole stories even； were written over and over again。 He worked upon a principle of elimination。 If he wished to describe an automobile turning in at a gate； he made first a long and elaborate description from which there was omitted no detail； which the most observant pair of eyes in Christendom had ever noted with reference to just such a turning。 Thereupon he would begin a process of omitting one by one those details which he