I was born in San Francisco in 1876.  At fifteen I was a man among men, and if I had a spare nickel I spent it on beer instead of candy, because I thought it was more manly¹ to buy beer.  Now, when my years are nearly doubled, I am out on a hunt for the boyhood which I never had, and I am less serious than at any other time of my life.  Guess I’ll find that boyhood!  Almost the first things I realized were responsibilities.  I have no recollection of being taught to read or write—I could do both at the age of five—but I know that my first school was in Alameda before I went out on a ranch² with my folks and as a ranch boy worked hard from my eighth year.  
The second school were I tried to pick up a little learning was an irregular hit or miss affair at San Mateo.  Each class sat in a separate desk, but there were days when we did not sit at all, for the master used to get drunk very often, and then one of the elder boys would thrash him.  To even things up, the master would then thrash the younger lads, so you can think what sort of school it was.  There was no one belonging to me, or associated with me in any way, who had literary tastes or ideas, the nearest I can make to it is that my great-grandfather was a circuit writer, a Welshman, known as “Priest” Jones in the backwoods, where his enthusiasm led him to scatter³ the Gospel.
 
One of my earliest and strongest impressions was of the ignorance of other people.  I had read and absorbed Washington Irving’s “Alhambra” before I was nine, but could never understand how it was that the other ranchers knew nothing about it.  Later I concluded that this ignorance was peculiar⁴ to the country, and felt that those who lived in cities would not be so dense⁵.  One day a man from the city came to the ranch.  He wore shiny shoes and a cloth coat, and I felt that here was a good chance for me to exchange thoughts with an enlightened mind.  From the bricks of an old fallen chimney I had built an Alhambra of my own; towers, terraces, and all were complete, and chalk inscriptions⁶ marked the different sections.  Here I led the city man and questioned him about “The Alhambra,” but he was as ignorant as the man on the ranch, and then I consoled myself with the thought that there were only two clever people in the world—Washington Irving and myself.
 
My other reading-matter at that time consisted mainly of dime⁷ novels, borrowed from the hired men, and newspapers in which the servants gloated over the adventures of poor but virtuous⁸ shop-girls.
 
Through reading such stuff my mind was necessarily ridiculously conventional, but being very lonely I read everything that came my way, and was greatly impressed by Ouida’s story “Signa,” which I devoured⁹ regularly for a couple of years.  I never knew the finish until I grew up, for the closing chapters were missing from my copy, so I kept on dreaming with the hero, and, like him, unable to see Nemesis¹⁰, at the end.  My work on the ranch at one time was to watch the bees, and as I sat under a tree from sunrise till late in the afternoon, waiting for the swarming¹¹, I had plenty of time to read and dream.  Livermore Valley was very flat, and even the hills around were then to me devoid¹² of interest, and the only incident to break in on my visions was when I gave the alarm of swarming, and the ranch folks rushed out with pots, pans, and buckets of water.  I think the opening line of “Signa” was “It was only a little lad,” yet he had dreams of becoming a great musician, and having all Europe at his feet.  Well, I was only a little lad, too, but why could not I become what “Signa” dreamed of being?
 
Life on a Californian ranch was then to me the dullest possible existence, and every day I thought of going out beyond the sky-line to see the world.  Even then there were whispers, promptings; my mind inclined to things beautiful, although my environment was unbeautiful.  The hills and valleys around were eyesores and aching pits, and I never loved them till I left them.
 
* * * * *
 
Before I was eleven I left the ranch and came to Oakland, where I spent so much of my time in the Free Public Library, eagerly reading everything that came to hand, that I developed the first stages of St. Vitus’ dance from lack of exercise.  Disillusions¹³ quickly followed, as I learned more of the world.  At this time I made my living as a newsboy, selling papers in the streets; and from then on until I was sixteen I had a thousand and one different occupations—work and school, school and work—and so it ran.
 
Then the adventure-lust was strong within me, and I left home.  I didn’t run, I just left—went out in the bay, and joined the oyster¹⁴ pirates.  The days of the oyster pirates are now past, and if I had got my dues for piracy¹⁵, I would have been given five hundred years in prison.  Later, I shipped as a sailor on a schooner¹⁶, and also took a turn at salmon¹⁷ fishing.  Oddly enough, my next occupation was on a fish-patrol, where I was entrusted¹⁸ with the arrest of any violators of the fishing laws.  Numbers of lawless Chinese, Greeks, and Italians were at that time engaged in illegal fishing, and many a patrolman paid his life for his interference.  My only weapon on duty was a steel table-fork, but I felt fearless and a man when I climbed over the side of a boat to arrest some marauder.
 
Subsequently I shipped before the mast and sailed for the Japanese coast on a seal-hunting expedition, later going to Behring Sea.  After sealing for seven months I came back to California and took odd jobs at coal shovelling²⁰ and longshoring and also in a jute factory, where I worked from six in the morning until seven at night.  I had planned to join the same lot for another sealing trip the following year, but somehow I missed them.  They sailed away on the Mary Thomas, which was lost with all hands.
 
In my fitful school-days I had written the usual compositions, which had been praised in the usual way, and while working in the jute mills I still made an occasional try.  The factory occupied thirteen hours of my day, and being young and husky, I wanted a little time for myself, so there was little left for composition.  The San Francisco Call offered a prize for a descriptive article.  My mother urged me to try for it, and I did, taking for my subject “Typhoon off the Coast of Japan.”  Very tired and sleepy, knowing I had to be up at half-past five, I began the article at midnight and worked straight on until I had written two thousand words, the limit of the article, but with my idea only half worked out.  The next night, under the same conditions, I continued, adding another two thousand words before I finished, and then the third night I spent in cutting out the excess, so as to bring the article within the conditions of the contest.  The first prize came to me, and the second and third went to students of the Stanford and Berkeley Universities.
 
My success in the San Francisco Call competition seriously turned my thoughts to writing, ............