I was not given to looking at life in a rosy light.
When I was a little boy I did not, of course, trouble much about my appearance.
The war imbued my tin soldiers with quite a new interest. It was impossible to have boxes enough of them.
The stream of time sweeps away errors, and leaves the truth for the inheritance of humanity.
The person upon whom the schoolboys' attention centred was, of course, the Headmaster.
That a literature in our time is living is shown in that way that it debates problems.
But I did not find any positive inspiration in my studies until I approached my nineteenth year.
School is a foretaste of life.
Poor is the power of the lead that becomes bullets compared to the power of the hot metal that becomes types.
On the whole, the world was friendly. It chiefly depended on whether one were good or not.
My first experiences of academic friendship made me smile in after years when I looked back on them. But my circle of acquaintances had gradually grown so large that it was only natural new friendships should grow out of it.
My father, though, could run very much faster. It was impossible to compete with him on the grass. But it was astonishing how slow old people were. Some of them could not run up a hill and called it trying to climb stairs.
Just about this time, when in imagination I was so great a warrior, I had good use in real life for more strength, as I was no longer taken to school by the nurse, but instead had myself to protect my brother, two years my junior.
It was jolly in the country. A cow and little pigs to play with and milk warm from the cow.
It gradually dawned upon me that there was no one more difficult to please than my mother.