A Biographical Sketch of the Life and Character of Joseph Charless | Page 4

was a little boy?
Was she a little girl then, and did she live in St. Louis, too?” No, my
children, when my parents moved to St. Louis I was a young lady and
grandpa was a young gentleman. We soon became acquainted, however,
and after awhile we were married, and then I took a strange fancy to
learn all about him from the time he was a little baby in his mother’s
arms; and when I ventured to ask his mother a few questions about him,
I found it pleased her so much that I was encouraged to ask many more.
And now it seems to me I have known grandpa always, and was with
him when he used to go with his mamma and little brothers and sisters
into the country, with a company of the neighbors, all in little French
carts, to gather strawberries and blackberries, which grew in abundance
in Lucas Place, Chouteau avenue, and all about, where now are elegant
mansions and paved streets. It was then a prairie, with clumps of trees
here and there, springs of water and sweet wild flowers.
He told me himself about his frolics with the French boys (many of
whom were his earliest and truest friends), how they used to have
match-eating pancake parties, in the day of the pancake festival in the
Catholic Church; and about his youthful gallantries, and how
desperately in love he was once with a very smart, pretty creole girl,
and how the discovery of “a hole in her stocking” drove the little god of
love from his breast.
But these anecdotes and incidents were, perhaps, more interesting to his
wife than they will be to you. Well, then, I will tell you an Indian story,

for I have never known a boy yet that did not like to hear about the
Indians. You know the poor things are now nearly exterminated from
the face of the earth. In the early history of St. Louis, I find that they
lived not far off, having pitched their wigwams only a little farther to
the west, for the white man, in intruding upon their hunting grounds,
had driven them, with the elk, the deer and the buffalo, still farther
from the Atlantic coast, which they once claimed as their own rightful
property. These poor savages, however, would often come into the
town to see “the white-faced children of the Great Spirit;” to buy their
beads and other fine things to dress up in; and that they might show
them how fierce they looked, their faces streaked with every variety of
paint, and their hair all shaved off excepting a little bunch on the top of
their heads which they reserved as a fastening for their feathers and
other head ornaments, of which they were very fond. But, I dare say, if
you have never seen Indians, you have seen their pictures. It was real
sport for the boys to see them dance, and listen to their wild songs and
savage yells.
But to my story. There was an old Indian who was a great thief. He was
seen alone, generally, prowling about the town, peeping through the
fences into the yards, watching out for chickens, or anything he could
shoot with his arrow, or slip under his blanket. Little Joseph Charless
had watched this famous old Indian thief, and determined to punish him
for his wickedness. To accomplish this purpose, he armed himself with
plenty of dried squashes, which he kept in the garret of his father’s
house, near to the gable window, that fronted on the street. He watched
his opportunity, and one day, as the Indian passed by, he threw a
squash down upon the old fellow’s head. Soon after he peeped out to
see if it had struck him, when whiz went the arrow, just grazing his face
and sticking tight and firm into the window beam above his head! This
fright cured him of “playing tricks upon travelers,” at least for awhile.
You see now, my dear children, from what I have told you, that
“grandpa” was just such a boy as you are–-fond of fun and frolic, and
of playing tricks.
I have said nothing of his love of school and books. But I think he was

about as fond of both as boys usually are. When a little boy he was sent
to the village school, and after he became large enough to work, he was
put to work in his father’s printing office. By the time he became a
pretty good printer, a school of a higher grade than any St. Louis had
yet afforded was opened in the country, and his father gladly availed
himself of this opportunity to continue the education of his son. He was
a pupil