"That's what my mother died of."

My father shuddered and put his face down in his hands. I felt a little
sorry for him, then.

"Well you've got to go West now ... and work on a farm ... or
something."

* * * * *

I began to get ready for my trip West. Surely enough, I had 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