The day-dreams I used to indulge in when twelve or thirteen, while
at work about the farm, boiling sap in the spring woods, driving
the cows to pasture, or hoeing corn,--dreams of great wealth and
splendor, of dress and equipage,--were also significant, but not
prophetic. Probably what started these golden dreams was an
itinerant quack phrenologist who passed the night at our house when
I was a lad of eight or nine. He examined the heads of all of us;
when he struck mine, he grew enthusiastic. "This is the head for
you," he said; "this boy is going to be rich, very rich"; and much
more to that effect. Riches was the one thing that appealed to
country people in those times; it was what all were after, and what
few had. Hence the confident prophesy of the old quack made an
impression, and when I began to indulge in day-dreams I was, no
doubt, influenced by it. But, as you know, it did not come true,
except in a very limited sense. Instead of returning to the Old
Home in a fine equipage, and shining with gold,--the observed of
all observers, and the envy of all enviers,--as I had dreamed, and
as had been foretold, I came back heavy-hearted, not indeed poor,
but far from rich, walked up from the station through the mud and
snow unnoticed, and took upon myself the debts against the old
farm, and so provided that it be kept in the family.
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