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."