From his earliest years Christopher was an unusual and remarkable boy. One day when he was about six years of age he was sent by his mother, early in the morning, to the store to purchase a pound of “blueing” for washing purposes. The morning grew to noon, and the afternoon waned until evening--processes which are not peculiar to the climate of Genoa--but the boy did not return, and his mother was unable to wash the family clothes. The truant had forgotten all about the “blueing,” and was spending the entire day in company with the McGinnis boys, watching a base-ball match in the City Hall Park between the Genoese Nine and the Red-legs of Turin. At dusk he returned, and his broken-hearted mother handed him over to his stern father, who invited him into the woodshed. As Christopher was removing his coat and loosening his other garments so as to satisfy his father that he had no shingles or school-atlases concealed about his person, he said: “Father, I stayed to witness that base-ball match, not because of a childish curiosity, nor yet because I had any money on the game, but solely in order to study the flight of the ball, hoping thereby to obtain some hints as to the law of projectiles that would enable me to improve the science of gunnery, which is now by no means in an advanced state. If, in view of these circumstances, you still think me worthy of punishment, I will submit with all the fortitude I can summon.” The father, deeply moved at this frank confession, wore out two apple-tree switches in connection with his son, and informed him that if he ever went with those McGinnis boys again he would “let him know.” At another time, when Christopher was about eight years old, his father sent him to a news company’s office to get the last number of the _Wool-Combers’ Trade Review_; but, as before, the boy failed to return, and after a prolonged search was given up as lost, and his parents decided that he had been run over by the horse-cars. Late in the evening Christopher was detected in the act of trying to sneak into the house through the kitchen windows, and was warmly received by his father, who stood him up in the middle of the kitchen, and without releasing his ear, demanded to know what he had to say for himself. Christopher, with a saddened expression of face, replied: “Father, I find it a matter of extreme difficulty to depart from the truth, even at this trying moment. Candor compels me to admit that I have spent the day in company with Michael and Patrick McGinnis, in studying the meteorological laws which affect the flight of kites. With the aid of the last number of the _Wool-Combers’ Trade Review_ and a few sticks, I made a beautiful kite, and I can confidently say that--” Here the old gentleman, exclaiming, “That will do! Your explanation is worse than your other crime,” applied a rattan cane to the future explorer, and afterwards sent him to bed supperless.