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Updated: June 15, 2025
Henry Selz was the unromantic name of the commonplace man over whose fifteen-year-old letters Rose had glowed and dreamed an hour before. It was a name that had become mythical in that household to all but one. Rose heard it spoken now with a sense of unreality. She smiled a little uncertainly, and went on stirring the flour thickening for the gravy.
Say, fellows, away back in the mountains of western North Carolina, far up on the mountainside, at the head of a cove, there lived a fifteen-year-old boy. He had sisters and brothers and parents, but they dwelt in a little tumble-down shack and were wretchedly poor.
"Then we will have a party," I declared triumphantly, "a regular boarding school party." "Then on to the kitchen!" She raised one of her long braids of hair and waved it like a banner. We giggled like fifteen-year-old school girls as we tiptoed our way into the kitchen, turned on the light and searched refrigerator, pantry, bread and cake boxes for food.
And the instructor even though he, perhaps, agreed with this boy-critic saw how foolish and hurtful for Napoleon's interest it would be to send such a surprising letter; and he promptly suppressed it. But the letter still exists; and a curious epistle it is for a fifteen-year-old boy to write.
Another pupil who came to him about this time was Mabel Hubbard, a fifteen-year-old girl who had lost her hearing and consequently her powers of speech, through an attack of scarlet fever when an infant. She was a gentle and lovable girl, and Bell fell completely in love with his pupil. Four years later he was to marry her and she was to prove a large influence in helping him to success.
He smoked serenely, gazing at the smooth swells of water and waiting with inexhaustible patience for the wind. At his feet the fifteen-year-old girl, Sister of Anne, disposed her saffron-colored body upon oars laid across the thwarts and slept. Ghost Girl, beside me, laid her glossy head in my lap to doze more comfortably.
"Oh, I'm that glad you've come," cried Janet, shaking her fifteen-year-old ringlets from her big hat, "you've given us an excuse for a rest. We were jist doin' a bit of gardenin'. Weren't we, Flora?" she asked.
This fifteen-year-old Ferragut appeared discontented with life. He was a man and he had to live with women his mother and two nieces, who were always making laces, just as in other times his mother had been the lace-making companion of her mother-in-law, Doña Cristina. He wanted to be a seaman and they were obliging him to study the uninteresting courses leading to a bachelor's degree.
The Baroness was just then taking her music lesson. The fifteen-year-old Dorothea Döderlein, who gave promise of developing into a remarkable virtuoso on the violin, was playing some sonatas with the Baroness. Andreas Döderlein had recognised her talents when she was a mere child. Since her tenth year, she had been obliged to practise six hours every day.
Boldt left for Germany on August 4, 1936, and returned September 12. On the evening I dropped in to see him, he was tensely nervous. He had heard that someone had been around to talk with Dieckhoff. "I understand your only son, Helmuth, is going to school in Langin, Germany?" I asked. "Yes," he said, "I sent him there two years ago." "No schools in the United States for a fifteen-year-old boy?"
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