Though he became a man later, he was a child of three when I
first knew him, and I was a youngster of ten. He was fair-haired,
pink-cheeked, and somewhat girlish--that is, a sweet-faced child, who
attracted affection and attention. He had a father, mother, a couple
of aunts--all in the same household, and several devoted cousins and
neighbors, of various ages, who occasionally visited him. I was in the
latter class, and, one day, after running an errand for his mother, I
picked him up, after the manner of my elders, and petted him. He stood
it tranquilly and smilingly, until his eyes rested on a corner of the
room. Then they dilated in terror, and a piercing scream came from his
lips. It was not the ordinary scream of nervous children--it was more.
After the beginning it rose an octave higher, much as a policeman's
whistle will rise from pressure of breath, or a steam siren take a new
note when it is well at work. It was penetrating and harrowing, and
his feminine relatives responded with inquiries and fumbling after
possible pins. Yet the screams continued, while his eyes were fixed in
indescribable intensity on the corner. He saw something there.
"What is it, boy?" I asked. "What do you see?"
"There!" he gasped, pointing. "Don't let it. Don't."
I gave him to his mother, and with the true intuition of a harum-scarum
boy, I ran to the corner, shouting, "Get out of here," at the same time
dealing a furious kick at an imaginary creature.
However, I was not affected at the time. Repeating my injunctions to
get out, I kicked and pursued the imaginary thing out through the door,
and returned, smiling, to the child.
"It's gone," he whimpered. "Don't let it come back."
"But what was it?" they asked. "What did you think you saw, Freddie?"