The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1899-02-26
THE MAN.
RecOIIectiOns of the POe and Story
Teller by a Girl.
London Sun.

rockingham is a fresh, charming little
place on the south coast Of England. There
Sir Edward Burne-Jones has a beautiful
house, and opposite his nephew, Mr.. Rud-
yard Kipling, had taken a place Tor the
summer. My mother used to visit Lazy
Burne-Jones, ana we frequently met the
house in rockingham, because, they SAID,
The had a holy horror of being made a
fuss off,
He used to settle himself in his chair as
though he were at peace with all the world.
and beam upon US through MS goid-rlmmed
glasses, and he had an odd habit OF ges-
ticulating with two fingers on any empha-
sized word as if he were knocking a nail
into it.
Conjure a rattle squat man. with such
ragged, gorse-like mustache that you must
have liked him very much to have let MIN
kiss you. Then a fine chin and jaw, strong
in line, gentle in contour. And my mother
temple to temple Always he wore a gray
suit and he never tied his shoe laces.
You could see him with his odd walk
that came from the shoulders, lurching
across the village streets on sunny after
Moons. He was Sun-broWned, muscular, ra-
diant-I think the happiest man ever met.
I never saw him in the open but that he
was singing or MISUNDERSTANDING, perhaps,
is the better word.
across to Brighton, when we all useq 10
stand in the road to see him start, and ne
would return in the evening to dinner, Or
we would miss him for two or three days
and find he had gone away to ireland.
Sometimes. with my sister and I, he would
sit on the beach at Nottingham and idle
away q morning. At cost of infinite trouble
he would pile a line Of stones. quite near the
water; then he would scrambl back 10 Us
and we would all fire voleys together. We
were allowed three throws to his one, but
| think the ratio was afteTward reversed,
because he was a poor shot. This recrea-
ton he called "decimating an enemy's pail
SADIE" and, as our shots slowly brought
down the stones, he would get quite excited,
and his shoe laceS become more and more
united. Also we would fling stones out on
the sea. and in this, too, we always beat him.
1t may be he allowed us to win, but at the
time he never permitted US the idea.
What used we talk about? Oh, about dogs
and birds and children (of which he was
genuinely fond and the pleasant nothing at
all. Always there were about him a simple
sincerity and a directness OF talk which they
say are only met in the very great and the
anybody else's-he never made remark.
Once, when we spoke Of India, he said ne
went there when he was quite a child, and
had stayed there very many years and that
he liked the place. Then he stopped, Whtstled
to his dogs, and we all went In for luncheon.
But really his talk was in no way as re-
markable as that of twenty obscure men l
know in London.
The Kipling children were uncanny little
souls, original IN manner, rather than pref
" In feature. There are three Of them-two
girls and a boy; all the summer they went
about, whether in their house, in the village
or on the beach, always without shoes or
socks, and their legs and hands were sun
burned 10 a gypsy brown.
Their great sport was to fling stones one
at the other in a kind Of triangular duel.
When this recreation palled upon them they
tional tight, conducted on all sides with
great spirit and determination. the girls as
eager eombatants as the boy. When all was
over they sat in a row on the beach, re-
moved the signs of battle. solemnly kissed
and then the queer little trio, hand In hand,
would go singing home to lunch.