I looked around for a
patch of garden-ground as instinctively as a duck seeks water. The
small plot adjoining the parsonage speedily grew into about three
acres, from which eventually came a book entitled "Play and Profit
in my Garden."
Up to the year 1871 I had written little for publication beyond
occasional contributions to the New York "Evangelist," nor had I
seriously contemplated a literary life. I had always been
extremely fond of fiction, and from boyhood had formed a habit of
beguiling the solitary hours in weaving crude fancies around
people who for any reason interested me. I usually had a mental
serial running, to which I returned when it was my mood; but I had
never written even a short story. In October, 1871, I was asked to
preach for a far uptown congregation in New York, with the
possibility of a settlement in view. On Monday following the
services of the Sabbath, the officers of the church were kind
enough to ask me to spend a week with them and visit among the
people. Meantime, the morning papers laid before us the startling
fact that the city of Chicago was burning and that its population
were becoming homeless.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38