d consumption,
if symptoms counted ... pains under the shoulder blades ... spitting of
blood ... night-sweats....

But my mind was quickened: I read Morley's _History of English
Literature_ ... Chaucer all through ... Spenser ... even Gower's
_Confessio Amantis_ and Lydgate's ballads ... my recent discovery of
Chatterton having made me Old English-mad.

As I read the life of young Chatterton I envied him, his fame and his
early death and more than ever, I too desired to die young.

* * * * *

The week before I was to set out my father calmly discovered to me that
he intended I should work on a farm as a hand for the next four years,
when I reached Ohio ... was even willing to pay the farmer something to
employ me. This is what the doctor had prescribed as the only thing that
would save my life--work in the open air. My father had written Uncle
Beck to see that this program was inaugurated.

"I won't become a clod-hopper," I exclaimed, seeing the dreary, endless
monotony of such a life.

"But it will do you good. It will be a fine experience for you."

"If it's such a fine experience why don't you go and do it?"

"I won't stand any nonsense."

"I'd rather die.... I'm going to die anyhow."

"Yes, if you don't do what I tell you."

"I won't."

"We'll see."

"Very well, father, we _will_ see."

"If you weren't such a sick kid I'd trounce you."

* * * * *

You could approach Antonville by surrey, buggy or foot ... along a
winding length of dusty road ... or muddy ... according to rain or
shine.

My Uncle Beck drove me out in a buggy.

Aunt Alice, so patient-faced and pretty and sweet-eyed in her neat
poverty--greeted me with a warm kiss.

"Well, you'll soon be well now."

"But I won't work on a farm."

"Never mind, dear ... don't worry about that just yet."

* * * * *

That afternoon I sat with Aunt Alice in the kitchen, watching her make
bread. Everyone else was out: Uncle Beck, on a case ... Cousin Anders,
over helping with the harvest on a neighbouring farm ... Cousin Anna was
also with the harvesters, helping cook for the hands ... for the
Doctor's family needed all the outside money they could earn.

For Uncle Beck was a dreamer. He thought more of his variorum
Shakespeare than he did of his medical practice. And he was slow-going
and slow-speaking and so conscientious that he told patients the tr