Father rode on top of the wagon. He was then a bald-headedman of forty-five， a little fat and from long association withmother and the chickens he had become habitually silent anddiscouraged. All during our ten years on the chicken farm hehad worked as a laborer on neighboring farms and most ofthe money he had earned had been spent for remedies to curechicken diseases， on Wilmer’s White Wonder Cholera Cure orProfessor Bidlow’s Egg Producer or some other preparationsthat mother found advertised in the poultry papers. There weretwo little patches of hair on father’s head just above his ears.
I remember that as a child I used to sit looking at him whenhe had gone to sleep in a chair before the stove on Sundayafternoons in the winter. I had at that time already begun toread books and have notions of my own and the bald path thatled over the top of his head was， I fancied， something like abroad road， such a road as Caesar might have made on whichto lead his legions out of Rome and into the wonders of anunknown world. The tufts of hair that grew above father’s earswere， I thought， like forests. I fell into a half-sleeping， halfwakingstate and dreamed I was a tiny thing going along theroad into a far beautiful place where there were no chickenfarms and where life was a happy eggless affair.
One might write a book concerning our flight from thechicken farm into town. Mother and I walked the entire eightmiles—she to be sure that nothing fell from the wagon and I tosee the wonders of the world. On the seat of the wagon besidefather was his greatest treasure. I will tell you of that.
On a chicken farm where hundreds and even thousandsof chickens come out of eggs surprising things sometimeshappen. Grotesques are born out of eggs as out of people. Theaccident does not often occur—perhaps once in a thousandbirths. A chicken is， you see， born that has four legs， twopairs of wings， two heads or what not. The things do not live.
They go quickly back to the hand of their maker that has for amoment trembled. The fact that the poor things could not livewas one of the tragedies of life to father. He had some sort ofnotion that if he could but bring into henhood or roosterhood afive-legged hen or a two-headed rooster his fortune would bemade. He dreamed of taking the wonder about to county fairsand of growing rich by exhibiting it to other farm-hands.
At any rate he saved all the little monstrous things thathad been born on our chicken farm. They were preserved inalcohol and put each in its own glass bottle. These he hadcarefully put into a box and on our journey into town it wascarried on the wagon seat beside him. He drove the horseswith one hand and with the other clung to the box. When wegot to our destination the box was taken down at once and thebottles removed. All during our days as keepers of a restaurantin the town of Bidwell， Ohio， the grotesques in their little glassbottles sat on a shelf back of the counter. Mother sometimesprotested but father was a rock on the subject of his treasure.
The grotesques were， he declared， valuable. People， he said，liked to look at strange and wonderful things.
Did I say that we embarked in the restaurant business in thetown of Bidwell， Ohio？ I exaggerated a little. The town itselflay at the foot of a low hill and on the shore of a small river.
The railroad did not run through the town and the station was amile away to the north at a place called Pickleville. There hadbeen a cider mill and pickle factory at the station， but beforethe time of our coming they had both gone out of business.
In the morning and in the evening busses came down to thestation along a road called Turner’s Pike from the hotel on themain street of Bidwell. Our going to the out of the way placeto embark in the restaurant business was mother’s idea. Shetalked of it for a year and then one day went off and rented anempty store building opposite the railroad station. It was heridea that the restaurant would be profitable. Travelling men，she said， would always be waiting around to take trains outof town and town people would come to the station to awaitincoming trains. They would come to the restaurant to buypieces of pie and drink coffee. Now that I am older I know thatshe had another motive in going. She was ambitious for me.
She wanted me to rise in the world， to get into a town schooland become a man of the towns.
At Pickleville father and mother worked hard as they alwayshad done. At first there was the necessity of putting our placeinto shape to be a restaurant. That took a month. Father builta shelf on which he put tins of vegetables. He painted a signon which he put his name in large red letters. Below his namewas the sharp command—“EAT HERE”—that was so seldomobeyed. A show case was bought and filled with cigars andtobacco. Mother scrubbed the floor and the walls of the room.
I went to school in the town and was glad to be away from thefarm and from the presence of the discouraged， sad-lookingchickens. Still I was not very joyous. In the evening I walkedhome from school along Turner’s Pike and remembered thechildren I had seen playing in the town school yard. A troopof little girls had gone hopping about and singing. I tried that.
Down along the frozen road I went hopping solemnly on oneleg. “Hippity Hop To The Barber Shop，” I sang shrilly. ThenI stopped and looked doubtfully about. I was afraid of beingseen in my gay mood. It must have seemed to me that I wasdoing a thing that should not be done by one who， like myself，had been raised on a chicken farm where death was a dailyvisitor.