I Remember Mama Page #4

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Would be great pity if boarder put

something over on San Francisco woman.

You talk as if San Francisco

were the world.

Yeah, is my world.

Goodbye, Jenny, Sigrid.

- Goodbye, Martha.

- Goodbye, Aunt Martha.

Goodbye, Arne, sweetheart.

Oh, Mr. Hyde, this is my sister Trina.

Enchanted.

Mr. Hyde reads to us tonight

the Tales From Two Cities.

It's a beautiful story, but sad.

I like sad stories.

I should like to finish this tonight.

Is good.

- Are you ready?

- Yes, please, Mr. Hyde.

Yeah, Mr. Hyde.

"In the black prison of the Conciergerie...

...the doomed of the day awaited their fate.

They were in numbers

the weeks of the year.

Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon

on the life-tide of the city...

...to the boundless everlasting sea."

I don't think I shall ever

forget that night.

It was almost midnight

when he came to the end...

...and none of us had noticed.

"It is a far, far better thing I do...

...than I have ever done.

It is a far, far better rest I go to...

...than I have ever known."

The end.

There were many nights

I couldn't sleep...

...for the way Mr. Hyde had

set my imagination dancing.

I wrote in my diary, "What a

wonderful thing is literature...

...transporting us to realms unknown. "

"His voice sank almost

to a whisper as he answered."

"'Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints...

...of a gigantic hound."'

To be continued in our next.

- Lf you're interested.

- Oh, yes, Mr. Hyde.

If we were interested? You couldn't

have kept us from it.

It meant a lot to Mama too,

because Nels stopped going nights...

...to the street corner to hang about

with the neighborhood boys.

The night they broke

into Mr. Dillon's store...

...Nels was home with us.

This above all:
to thine own self be true.

And it must follow, as the night the day...

...thou canst not then be false to any man.

The more Mr. Hyde read,

the more I realized...

...that the one thing I really wanted

in all the world was to become a writer.

I did write a piece once

about Mama's Uncle Chris...

...but my schoolteacher said

it wasn't nice to write...

...about a member of one's own family.

Once or twice a year...

...our Uncle Chris, with his great,

loud voice...

...with his fierce black mustache...

...would come down

from his ranch in the north...

...and descend upon San Francisco

in his automobile.

We knew that from the time

he roared off the ferry...

...and charged up Market Street

to get a good run up the hill...

...our quiet way of life

was due for a change.

Uncle Chris.

Uncle Chris.

We children didn't talk much about him...

...but Mama used to say that the reason

Uncle Chris drove so fast...

...was that it gave him a feeling of

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