Kirkland's "A New Home:
Who'll Follow?" the first real Western book I ever read. Its
genuine pioneer-flavor was delicious. And, moreover, it was a
prophecy to Sarah, Emilie, and myself, who were one day thankful
enough to find an "Aunty Parshall's dish-kettle" in a cabin on an
Illinois prairie.
So the pleasantly occupied years slipped on, I still nursing my
purpose of a more systematic course of study, though I saw no
near possibility of its fulfillment. It came in an unexpected
way, as almost everything worth having does come. I could never
have dreamed that I was going to meet my opportunity nearly or
quite a thousand miles away, on the banks of the Mississippi.
And yet, with that strange, delightful consciousness of growth
into a comprehension of one's self and of one's life that most
young persons must occasionally have experienced, I often vaguely
felt heavens opening for my half-fledged wings to try themselves
in. Things about me were good and enjoyable, but I could not
quite rest in them; there was more for me to be, to know, and to
do.
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