If any number of boys were asked to name their favourite book, “Treasure Island,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, would be sure to be mentioned. Could any one who has read the book ever forget Black Dog, Billy Bones, John Silver, Ben Gunn, or any of the characters which figure in that remarkable story? The author of “Treasure Island” was born in Edinburgh on November 13, 1850. His father and his grandfather had both been lighthouse builders. The stern, rugged coast of Scotland with its many dangerous reefs, make it necessary to have well-built lighthouses to warn the mariners of danger, and so, on many rocks that run out to the sea, the friendly beacons are placed by daring builders, who often erected them at the risk of their lives.

No doubt Robert’s father would have been glad had the boy been strong enough to follow the same calling, but Robert was a delicate little fellow who never could have worked hard like his father. He was an only child and his poor health caused his parents a good deal of anxiety. He was so delicate that he was not able for many years to join other children in their play, although there never was a lad who had a merrier heart. At school he did not do very well, because he was absent so much on account of sickness. He spent a good deal of his time in bed, and developed a great love for stories. First his mother, then the nurse, would read stories to him until their throats were sore, and young Robert would listen to every word and ask for “Just one more story.” Out in the street he could hear the voices of his chums as they gleefully shouted in their play, but Robert had to sit in bed, propped up by pillows, a shawl pinned around him, while he listened to stories or played with his toy soldiers.

He was often lonely, for he dearly loved to have other children around, but the best he could do was to press his face against the window-pane and watch them play in the street. Thus it was that he lived in a little world of his own. He thought about fairies and goblins, or he imagined he was a sailor in some far-off seas where pirates abounded and then, in order to pass away the time, he began to write little stories himself, and read them to his mother, who no doubt laughed heartily at his romantic tales.

One day he was passing a large, empty house and for the sake of adventure he thought he would enter it and imagine himself a daring burglar. He found an open window and crawled through. Then he roamed around the empty house feeling as bold as a lion. Suddenly he heard a noise and all at once his courage fled. Most likely it was a mouse, but all kinds of terrible pictures arose in Robert’s mind. He imagined himself arrested, handcuffed and brought before the magistrate. No one came, however, and he plucked up enough courage to get to the window by which he had entered and race home.

From being a delicate child Robert grew up to be a man with very poor health. He suffered a great deal, in fact there was scarcely a day when he was free from pain. He once wrote a letter to a friend in which he made one of his few references to his sufferings. He said: “For fourteen years I have not had a day’s real health; I have wakened sick and gone to bed weary; and I have done my day unflinchingly. I have written in bed and written out of it; written in hæmorrhages, written in sickness, written torn by coughing, written when my head swam from weakness and for so long it seems to me I have won my wager. The battle goes on, ill or well is a trifle, so as it goes. I was made for a contest and the Powers have so willed that my battlefield should be this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle.”

This certainly was not the kind of life that Robert Louis Stevenson’s great love of fun and action made it easy to accept. He longed for health and did everything he could to get it. He loved the woods and the fields, but generally when he would like to be there, he had to remain in bed. Yet, throughout it all, he showed a cheerfulness and a courage which have seldom been equalled. He had an unquenchable love of fun, and although he was often so ill that he could only carry on a conversation in whispers, or by writing with pencil, no one ever visited him who did not realise how wonderfully brave he was. When one learns of his physical condition it seems hardly possible that Stevenson could write these words:

All during these years of suffering Stevenson wrote books which were, and still are, read by thousands of appreciative people. And these are not the kind of books that people read and forget at once. They are the books that can be read and enjoyed over and over again, and never seem to lose their charm. Besides “Treasure Island,” he wrote “Kidnapped,” “Travels with a Donkey,” “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “A Child’s Garden of Verse,” “The Master of Ballantrae,” and a number of others of very high standard. At that time very little was known about Stevenson himself; how surprised his readers would have been had they known that the writer of such fascinating and cheerful books was a chronic invalid. One man who wrote a review of a book by Stevenson, said that the chief defect in the book was that the writer was too optimistic and far too cheerful. “This writer,” he said, “has evidently never truly known what suffering is, or he would not speak so complacently about its endurance.” When Stevenson read this criticism he laughed heartily and said it was one of the finest compliments that he had ever received.

Of course he longed for health and occasionally he wrote a few lines which show how great that longing was. Once he wrote: “I have so many things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that other thing, health. But I believe, for myself at least, whatever is, is best.” Often he made great fun of his sickness as though he was determined to laugh at it and not allow it to get the better of him. He wrote to a friend: “I am about knocked out of time now; a miserable, snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering shadow and remains of a man.” Then he lapsed into the Scotch dialect he had known as a boy: “But we’ll no gie ower gist yet a bittie. We’ve seen waur, and Dod mem! it’s my belief that we’ll see better. I dinna ken ’at I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but gist here’s a guid fallowship, guid health, and the wale o’ guid fortune to yer bonnie sel’.”

Still seeking health, Stevenson went to live on the island of Samoa. There he lived for several years and it is there that he is buried. It was a strange life for him and his wife at first, but the climate was good for him and no doubt prolonged his life. At first the Samoans did not know what to make of this stranger who came to live among them. They were puzzled and suspicious, but gradually as they came to know him better, they began to love him, until they looked upon him as their friend, whose wisdom they could always trust.

The Samoans were lazy, ignorant, and inclined to steal, but they had also many good qualities and so Stevenson sought to win their confidence and then teach them better ways of doing things. He worked industriously not only at his literary work, but at manual labour as far as his strength permitted. With some help he built three houses, a big barn and a road two miles long. Besides this he cleared a good deal of land and planted quantities of food. In time he had his own banana-patch, lemon trees, pineapples and cocoanuts; and he greatly enjoyed the work. He insisted upon being called a farmer and if things went wrong—as they often did—he laughed merrily and refused to be discouraged.

Stevenson was never so happy as when telling stories and the Samoans were just as keen listeners as other folks. He quickly mastered the Samoan language and nightly the natives gathered around him as he told tales of adventure and described vividly places he had seen. It was the Samoans who named him “Tusitala,” which means, in their language “Teller of Tales.” His wife they called “Aolele,” or “Beautiful as a flying cloud.”

He lived very much as the natives. Most of the time he went barefoot, with scanty clothing because of the heat, so that he became almost as brown as a Samoan. He bathed a great deal, sometimes wading in the water for hours and gathering shells. At other times he wandered over the island through the dense forests of fruit trees, while the tall palm trees waved overhead. In his home he followed a rigid programme. He rose early in the morning, generally early enough to see the sun rise. He did as much work during the day as his feeble health allowed. In the evening he had prayers with his family and the Samoan members of his household at eight o’clock, following which he retired and slept on a chest covered with native mats and blankets.

On one occasion war broke out between two chiefs. Stevenson was unable to prevent the feud, but he did his utmost to help the sufferers. The Samoans showed their confidence in him at this time by bringing a bag full of coins, which they had saved to buy roofing for their church, and asking him to keep them until the war was over. While the war was on Stevenson visited the prisoners, did his utmost to secure for them medical aid, and helped them over the dull monotony of convalescence by telling them fascinating stories. The gratitude of the Samoans was very great. They were not naturally an industrious people, which was due no doubt in part to the warm climate; however, they decided to build a private road to Stevenson’s home, and to keep it in constant repair. They called it, “The road of Loving Hearts,” and the inscription which the chiefs drew up read as follows: “Considering the great love of Tusitala in his loving care of us in our distress in the prison, we have therefore prepared a splendid gift. It shall never be muddy, it shall endure for ever, this road that we have dug.”