One day I told father of my desires and intentions. He ridiculed my ideas, and, when that was of no avail, tried solid argument. He showed me that farming was an honorable and sure profession, and the life of the farmer one that was both pleasant and independent. He went on to say that if I remained with him I would grow up to be a respected citizen, and eventually become owner of the farm. If I aspired to political honors I could obtain almost anything I wanted. I could be a member of the district school board. At some later day I might be township trustee, or even reach the sublime position of a county commissioner. But, no. The seed had been sown, and it was too late to pull up the sprouted plant. I wanted to travel and see something of the world. I was determined to have experience with and insight into the rugged, rough and rapid side of life—and I got it. I was just burning up with enthusiasm. I desired to move around, to expand, to go out and “hustle,” and grow rich myself, if I could. I confess I hated to leave my parents and the good old home, though the conversation with my father showed me that his opposition would not be extreme. I lingered around for several days, unwilling to declare my positive intention, but awaiting some favorable opportunity and good excuse to cut loose from the ties of home. Both came. I went out one day with father to build a shed for the chickens, and an argument arose as to the best way of proceeding. He wanted his way; I wanted mine. The controversy continued until father got mad and shoved me aside, calling me a d— fool. It was the nearest approach to swearing I had ever heard him make. My chance had come. Picking up my coat, and facing my worthy lord, I said: “Dad, I have the honor, sir, of being your son.” With that I returned to the house. Three days later I left the farm. On the morning of my departure I embraced my dear old mother and my sister, and accompanied by my father drove into “town.” We stopped at a place then known as lower State Street. We conversed together for some minutes, he giving me the usual, good, fatherly advice, with a “God bless you, my son,” etc. At last he turned to go, and as he did so slipped a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, while I could see the tears starting in his eyes at what seemed to him almost an eternal parting. I watched the going of the good old man as far as I could see him, and those were the most unpleasant moments of my whole life. I believe, had I possessed the nerve, I would have taken the first wagon I could find going that way and returned home. I was in for it, however, and having decided in my mind that I had to stick it out, this feeling soon wore off in the light of the strange sights and stranger fancies inspired in a pedestrian tour through the heart of Chicago.