In my seventeenth year I found myself, at great expense and lack of provision, pursuing higher knowledge at the newly established college in Charlottesville. The brainchild of the Honorable Thomas Jefferson, the institution was but in its second year under the moniker of University of Virginia. So new was the school that the principal architecture was just reaching completion, and the principle of self-governance had not fully established its foothold among the student body.
Seeking respite one day from the chaos of the fledgling university, I ventured out onto the Lawn to sit and study at the base of one of the small oaks scattered about. Spring was in full bloom and the air temperature high enough to remain still in it without need for an overcoat or accoutrements such as a scarf or gloves, luxuries I could scarce afford in those years and even now. There was only a slight breeze that would on occasion bring to my ears the jocular exultations of my colleagues. On most days I would be a party to those exultations, but on this particular day introspection was the catchword.
I allowed myself complete immersion into my texts, the German vocabulary marching its staccato through my cerebrum as I contemplated syntax with my synapses. The flurried tarantella of brain activity strikingly betrayed by the utter stillness of my corporeal self, I daresay I would have seemed an oddity to the occasional passerby if they had been able to lock onto my eyes, those windows into the soul and the mind.
I had positioned myself outside of Pavilion VII (ironically the first school building to be completed) whose cornerstone was laid by our country’s fifth President. The Colonnade Club, as it was called, was a preferred destination for faculty and students alike, warm and receptive. It was probably for this reason that I chose to position myself just beyond its doors. Though I wished to be alone that afternoon, I was also hesitant to be too far from the bustle of activity. A secondary reason for my position was the vista it afforded me of Pavilion IV, in many ways the direct opposite of the Seventh. The building itself sat at the other end of the Lawn criss-cross made by the two Pavilions. In it housed the bane of mine and others’ existences, Mr. B¾, the very professor whose class I was studying for under the young oak’s bough. A miserable man of Prussian origin and demeanor, he barked at all who had the misfortune of being within earshot. Handpicked by the university’s father, I suppose he must have had some redeeming qualities. And I suppose the fact that I was making such an effort to excel in his class suggested he must have been a teacher of considerable worth, which was fortunate as that was the justification for his residence there. From my perch there outside the Colonnade Club, I could intermittently peek at its Doric columns and rejoice in not seeing Mr. B¾ exiting to the Lawn to spoil my good mood.
It was during one of these peeks across the Lawn that I spotted some peculiar movement among the columns. At first I thought it a construct of my German-addled brain, but as I took a more lingering look I could see there was indeed something happening on the front porch.  Two small children, a boy and a girl, were weaving themselves in and out of the structure, taking turns chasing one another. Their tinkling laughter, like tiny little bells, floated down one terrace and another, into my welcoming ears. Such delightful sounds to distract me from my studies, I allowed myself to look upon their horseplay until my watching was noticed by the little girl. I quickly turned my face back down to the book in my lap, flustered that I could not remember my place among the umlauts on the page.  Even in my haste, however, I could not miss that tiny derisive tongue poking out in my direction through pursed lips.
From that point, I kept my head down and would not allow myself to be distracted. I regained control of the wanderings of my mind, and that familiar rhythm returned to my brain. I was back in the Old World, conversing with Kaisers with the greatest of ease. Completely immersed I was when a flutter of white appeared in the periphery of my vision. Without moving at all, I was able to see through my eyelashes a vague shape emulating a miniature human. I gave in to my curiosity and looked up fully at the same young girl who had moments before been so discourteous toward me, now standing not even a yard away. She was joined instantaneously by her gregarious brother whose motion behind her caused her skirts to rustle of which she was oblivious, her attention fully focused on myself. She remained silent, and her brother began the introductions.
“Good weather, isn’t it? The winter’s finally gone. Are you a student here? You look like a student. I don’t see any moustaches on you. Can you grow moustaches? I can’t. I’m only six. My pater’s a teacher here. This is my sister, Greta, she’s younger than me. I’m George, what’s your name?”
The cascade of his diatribe was initially a mere cacophony  in my ears. I daresay I was only able to piece together  his words in any semblance of order after what seemed like very long moments before I was able to respond. Too late, though, as little Greta had finally broken her tableau vivant to take a step close enough to insert one small finger in the tattered shoulder seam of my morning coat. Flustered again, I batted away at her hand as you would a horsefly, but finally I answered the boy, “You may call me Eddie.”
The boy then began a second battery of questions for which he apparently cared not their answers. Intermingled with his queries were his observations of what was currently his home. His family came to Virginia directly from London, though they were German by birth. Most of the time he preferred the weather in Virginia because he could play outdoors most days. However, he didn’t care much for the mosquitos in the summer. When asked about his sister he merely replied that she kept out of his way most of the time and so was tolerable. I had to agree with George that his sister did seem fairly agreeable in disposition, despite her insistence in noticing how my ensemble was in quite a state of disrepair.
“You ought to get this fixed, Eddie,” were the very first words Greta uttered in my presence, and I did my best to disguise my humiliation in good humor.
“Well, lassie, if your occupation is seamstress, I may be able to scrounge a shiny penny for you to make the repairs for me.”
George interjected once again. “You don’t have any money, do you? My pater has lots of money. He’s a professor here, did I tell you that? They’re always having parties at the Pavilion. We’re supposed to stay in our rooms, but Greta likes to see all the ladies’ dresses. Most of the adults don’t notice us. You should come to one of the parties, you could eat like a king.”
“I’m afraid I would not be able to make myself hidden, and my presence would certainly not be welcome, though eating like a king does have quite the appeal.”
“You should just take the food,” Greta suggested. Such simple words uttered from such an angelic countenance. Yet those words struck a resonant chord within me. I had only been at the University for a few months but already was feeling the pinch as the purse strings had been pulled ever tighter by my step-father. Every penny was given grudgingly, and some of those pennies were given to extant obligations, sacrificing a hot meal. Having more than just moldy, crusty bread in my belly would certainly make modern language study more palatable.
I could see on his face that George was thinking hard. After a few moments, he had a plan worked out. He would go back to the Pavilion and procure an empty canvas sack, the kind they bring potatoes in. It could be folded up small, concealed in my satchel. No one would question my entrance into the building as I was a student of languages there. The children would create a diversion outside the kitchen at which time I would quickly and quietly slip inside, fill the sack with whatever foodstuffs that were available then sneak out the back entrance. I would be able to make my way across the gardens and into the woods beyond , hiding if necessary among the construction mess of  Washington Hall which wasn’t yet complete.
“Believe me, young imps, when I say your proposal is indeed quite tempting. Not just for the sport of it, but the result would prove comforting to my constitution. Alas, it is completely contrary to the gentleman’s code to which I’m bound.”
“All the more reason, sir, you should take the risk.”
I was beginning to believe strongly that these two sweet-faced angels were acting as agents of the great tempter Lucifer, attempting to hasten my downfall. There was also a part of me that would have relished the thought of bringing some amount of suffering to Mr. B¾. I remained steadfast, however, and refused to take their bait, that juicy red apple which even now coaxes some salivation. This displeased the male child greatly, and his behavior became increasingly agitated. As for the young female, she merely appeared bored.
George sighed heavily, “I’ll give you a half-dime if you do it.” Another temptation was added on. Not only would I have a bag of food, I would have a coin I could use to buy more when the sack was empty, or to place on a bet for even more coins.
“It’s no good my dear boy. I must remain true to my oath. Though I may be hungry for sweet morsels, I am more hungry for knowledge and mustn’t threaten my future at the University.” At this, George kicked a large divot into the grass, and Greta fixed a large but pretty pout upon her face. She swirled around on one foot and, with her brother, spirited away back from whence they came. I watched as they made their way across the width of the Lawn, smiled to myself, and with a harrumph returned to my studies.