s that
of a Scotch farmer named Parkin. Father, mother, and children were
very attractive, both socially and intellectually, and in later years
I wondered whether any of them were still living. Fifty years later
I had one of the greatest and most agreeable surprises of my life
in suddenly meeting the little boy of the family in the person of
Dr. George R. Parkin, the well-known promoter of imperial federation
in Australia and the agent in arranging for the Rhodes scholarships
at Oxford which are assigned to America.

My duties were of the most varied character. I composed a little
couplet designating my professions as those of

Physician, apothecary, chemist, and druggist,
Girl about house and boy in the barn.

I cared for the horse, cut wood for the fire, searched field and
forest for medicinal herbs, ordered other medicines from a druggist
[3] in St. John, kept the doctor's accounts, made his pills, and
mixed his powders. This left little time for reading and study,
and such exercises were still farther limited by the necessity of
pursuing them out of sight of the housewife.

As time passed on, the consciousness that I was wasting my growing
years increased. I long cherished a vague hope that the doctor
could and would do something to promote my growth into a physician,
especially by taking me out to see his patients. This was the
recognized method of commencing the study of medicine. But he never
proposed such a course to me, and never told me how he expected me
to become a physician. Every month showed my prospects in a less
hopeful light. I had rushed into my position in blind confidence in
the man, and without any appreciation of the requirements of a medical
practitioner. But these requirements now presented themselves to
my mind with constantly increasing force. Foremost among them was
a knowledge of anatomy, and how could that be acquired except at a
medical school? It was every day more evident that if I continued
in my position I should reach my majority without being trained for
any life but that of a quack.

While in this state of perplexity, an event happened which suggested
a way out. One day the neighborhood was stirred by the news that
Tommy Nixon had run away--left his home without the consent of his
parents, and sailed for the gold fields of Australia. I was struck
by the absence of any word of reprobation for his act. The young men
at least seemed to admire the enterpris