For Richard these days were especially welcome.

They meant a respite from the studies which were a constant menace to himself and his parents; and the freedom of the open country, the ocean, the many sports on land and on the river gave his body the constant exercise his constitution seemed to demand, and a broad field for an imagination which was even then very keen, certainly keen enough to make the rest of us his followers.
In an extremely sympathetic appreciation which Irvin S.Cobb wrote about my brother at the time of his death, he says that he doubts if there is such a thing as a born author.

Personally it so happened that I never grew up with any one, except my brother, who ever became an author, certainly an author of fiction, and so I cannot speak on the subject with authority.

But in the case of Richard, if he was not born an author, certainly no other career was ever considered.

So far as I know he never even wanted to go to sea or to be a bareback rider in a circus.