"Laugh, will you!" I shrieked, beside myself. "Laugh! laugh! laugh!" He said afterwards that I absolutely frightened him, I was so small and so tragic. "I knew then," he declared, "that that child had great emotional and dramatic possibilities in her. Why, she nearly burned me up!" Years later, when I was singing in St. Paul, the _Dispatch_ printed this story in an interview with Mr. Newson himself. He made a heartless jest of the alliteration--"Kellogg's Kitten Killed"--and referred to my "inexpressible expression of sorrow and disgust" as I cried, "Laugh, will you!" Said Mr. Newson in summing up: "It was a real tragedic act!" Mr. Newson's description of me as a child is: "A black-eyed little girl, somewhat wayward--as she was an only child--kind-hearted, affectionate, self-reliant, and very independent!" Well--sight-reading became so easy to me, presently, that I could not realise any difficulty about it. To see a note was to be able to sing it; and I was often puzzled when people expressed surprise at my ability. When I was about eleven, someone took me to Hartford to "show me off" to William Babcock, a teacher and a thorough musician. He got out some of his most difficult German songs; songs far more intricate than anything I had ever before seen, of course, and was frankly amazed to find that I read them just about as readily as the simple airs to which I was accustomed. My childhood was very quiet and peaceful, rather commonplace in fact, except for music. Reading was a pleasure, too, and, as my father was a student and had a wonderful library, I had all the books I wanted. I was literally brought up on Carlyle and Chaucer. I must have been a rather queer child, in some ways. Even as a little thing I liked clothes. When only nine years old I conceived a wild desire for a pair of kid gloves. Kid gloves were a sign of great elegance in those days. At last my clamours were successful and I was given a pair at Christmas. They were a source of great pride, and I wore them to church, where I did my little singing in the choir with the others. By this time I could read any music at sight and would sit up and chirp and peep away quite happily. As I spread my kid-gloved hands out most conspicuously, what I had not noticed became very noticeable to everyone else: the fingers were nearly two inches too long. And the choir laughed at me. I was dreadfully mortified and sat there crying, until the kind contralto comforted me.