I never went home at vacation time. I spent those days in exploring near-by orchards, gardens, and fields, picking up fruit, vegetables, and berries, and other things that help to take the edge off a small boy’s appetite. I spent much time about the barns and stables with Thomas, the coachman. I was an expert listener, a rare talent, inherited from my father, no doubt. Thomas was a ready talker. This is a combination that never fails to make firm and lasting friendships, and we became friends. He was a veteran of our Civil War, had been on the losing side, and came out of it full of hatred, lead, and rheumatism. His heroes were not Lee or Stonewall Jackson, but Quantrell, the guerrilla, Jesse and Frank James, Cole and Bob Younger. I never tired of listening to his war stories, and often found myself piecing them together in the schoolroom when I should have been active with my studies. I believe I was the only boy at the school who never went away on holidays and vacations to visit parents or relatives. The Sister Superior, probably realizing that my life was a bit too drab, often gave me the privilege of going to the village for mail and papers. This was a rare treat, and much sought by all the boys. It meant a long walk, a stroll down the village street, a chance to see people, maybe to buy a fat sandwich, a bag of peanuts, or a bottle of pop—no small things in a boy’s life. It also meant authority and responsibility, good things for a boy. I looked forward to these journeys. I always had a little small silver, for spending, from my father. The time passed quickly and pleasantly enough. I learned many prayers, practiced for singing in the church choir, and became an altar boy, serving the priest at mass. I liked learning the prayers and the Latin responses to the priest, but did not make much headway with my other studies. I liked the dear, simple old priest to whom I made my first confession, and at times thought I would like some day to be a priest myself. Between my admiration for old Thomas, the coachman, with his stormy stories of the war, and my love for the quiet old priest, my mind was always pulling me this way and that—whether I should become a priest, or a soldier like Tommy, limping around with his short leg and his rheumatism. One day when I was waiting for the mail I heard a nice old lady ask the postmaster whose boy I was. He said, “That’s one of the boys from the convent. You can tell them a block away. They are all perfect little gentlemen. They say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you.’ I do not know how the Sisters do it, but they can surely bring boys up. I wish I could do it with mine.”