Other editions of book Margaret Ogilvy

In Margaret Ogilvy, author J. M. Barrie (today best remembered for his enduring children's classic Peter Pan) presents a loving, detailed portrait of his mother. As a child, Margaret had been forced to become the "woman of the house" when she was only eight years old, filling in as the household manager after her own mother's death. Her difficult early life seems to have inspired Barrie's works about children who seek desperately to cling to the carefree days of youth.

On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman’s long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the west room, my father’s unnatural coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white)—I so often heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember, as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they looked. I am sure my mother’s feet were ettling to be ben long before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise.

Excerpt from Margaret OgilvyNeighbours came in to see the boy and the chairs. I wonder if she deceived me when she affected to think that there were others like us, or whether I saw through her from the first, she was so easily seen through. When she seemed to agree with them that it would be impos sible to give me a college education, was I so easily taken in, or did I know already what ambitions burned behind that dear face? When they spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I such a new comer that her timid lips must say 'they are but a beginning' before I heard the words? And when we were left together, did I laugh at the great things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I would help? Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me to feel that it was not so from the beginning.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman's long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the west room, my father's unnatural coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white)—I so often heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember, as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they looked. I am sure my mother's feet were ettling to be ben long before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise.

On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman's long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the west room, my father's unnatural coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white)—I so often heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember, as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they looked. I am sure my mother's feet were ettling to be ben long before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise.

In Margaret Ogilvy, author J. M. Barrie (today best remembered for his enduring children's classic Peter Pan) presents a loving, detailed portrait of his mother. As a child, Margaret had been forced to become the "woman of the house" when she was only eight years old, filling in as the household manager after her own mother's death. Her difficult early life seems to have inspired Barrie's works about children who seek desperately to cling to the carefree days of youth.

In Margaret Ogilvy, author J. M. Barrie (today best remembered for his enduring children's classic Peter Pan) presents a loving, detailed portrait of his mother. As a child, Margaret had been forced to become the "woman of the house" when she was only eight years old, filling in as the household manager after her own mother's death. Her difficult early life seems to have inspired Barrie's works about children who seek desperately to cling to the carefree days of youth.

In Margaret Ogilvy, author J. M. Barrie (today best remembered for his enduring children's classic Peter Pan) presents a loving, detailed portrait of his mother. As a child, Margaret had been forced to become the "woman of the house" when she was only eight years old, filling in as the household manager after her own mother's death. Her difficult early life seems to have inspired Barrie's works about children who seek desperately to cling to the carefree days of youth.