BRAVE TUSITALA, THE TELLER OF STORIES If any number of boys were asked to name their favourite book, “Treasure Island,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, would be sure to be mentioned. Could any one who has read the book ever forget Black Dog, Billy Bones, John Silver, Ben Gunn, or any of the characters which figure in that remarkable story? The author of “Treasure Island” was born in Edinburgh on November 13, 1850. His father and his grandfather had both been lighthouse builders. The stern, rugged coast of Scotland with its many dangerous reefs, make it necessary to have well-built lighthouses to warn the mariners of danger, and so, on many rocks that run out to the sea, the friendly beacons are placed by daring builders, who often erected them at the risk of their lives. No doubt Robert’s father would have been glad had the boy been strong enough to follow the same calling, but Robert was a delicate little fellow who never could have worked hard like his father. He was an only child and his poor health caused his parents a good deal of anxiety. He was so delicate that he was not able for many years to join other children in their play, although there never was a lad who had a merrier heart. At school he did not do very well, because he was absent so much on account of sickness. He spent a good deal of his time in bed, and developed a great love for stories. First his mother, then the nurse, would read stories to him until their throats were sore, and young Robert would listen to every word and ask for “Just one more story.” Out in the street he could hear the voices of his chums as they gleefully shouted in their play, but Robert had to sit in bed, propped up by pillows, a shawl pinned around him, while he listened to stories or played with his toy soldiers. He was often lonely, for he dearly loved to have other children around, but the best he could do was to press his face against the window-pane and watch them play in the street. Thus it was that he lived in a little world of his own. He thought about fairies and goblins, or he imagined he was a sailor in some far-off seas where pirates abounded and then, in order to pass away the time, he began to write little stories himself, and read them to his mother, who no doubt laughed heartily at his romantic tales. One day he was passing a large, empty house and for the sake of adventure he thought he would enter it and imagine himself a daring burglar. He found an open window and crawled through. Then he roamed around the empty house feeling as bold as a lion. Suddenly he heard a noise and all at once his courage fled. Most likely it was a mouse, but all kinds of terrible pictures arose in Robert’s mind. He imagined himself arrested, handcuffed and brought before the magistrate. No one came, however, and he plucked up enough courage to get to the window by which he had entered and race home.