find no other adequate explanation for my predestination for the stage.
I was born just off the Bowery, on Third Street, then a street of quiet folk, but within a year we moved to Forty-third Street, between Sixth Avenue and Broadway, then a brand-new block of brownstone fronts. When I was six my father died. He left an estate sufficient for my mother's comfort and to provide me at twenty-one with a legacy, which the stage took away from me.
Twice, long after his death, evidence of the general love borne my father came to me dramatically, incidents all the more affecting in that I have only the vaguest memories of him myself. A banquet given to Nat Goodwin, myself and other Lambs in London in 1899 was honored by the presence of Ambassador Choate. Mr. Choate's remarks were given over very largely to affectionate remembrance of my father and mother. He told, in passing, of my third birthday, and of how every visitor to the house greeted me with "Hello, little Willie, so you are three years old."
And I answered, "No, I ain't; I won't be three till Choke comes."
Nat Goodwin, who spoke later, commented
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