Left entirely alone on a quiet afternoon, the unbroken stillness which
surrounded me, as well as the soft haze which floats upon the
atmosphere, in that most delightful of all seasons, the glorious "Indian
Summer" of Eastern Canada, caused my thoughts to wander far away into
the dreamy regions of the past, and many scenes long past, and almost
forgotten, passed in review before my mind's eye on that quiet
afternoon. While thus musing the idea occurred to me that there are few
individuals, however humble or obscure, whose life-history (if noted
down) would prove wholly without interest to others, in the form of a
book; and this thought caused me to form the idea of noting down some
passages from my own life--as they were on that day recalled to my mind.
Like the boy who dreamed a most remarkable dream and, when asked to
relate it, "didn't know where to begin," so was I puzzled as to how I
should make a beginning for my story. But the incidents of one
particular day when I was about thirteen years old were so vividly
brought back to my mind, that I have decided upon that day as a
starting-point; and now to my story.

"Where alive has that lazy, good-for-nothing boy taken, himself off to
now, I wonder, and the weeds I left him to pull in the garden not half
done yet; but it's just like him, as soon's my back's turned to skulk
off in this way. I'll put a stop to this work one of these days, see if
I don't. Its likely he's hiding in some out-of-the-way corner with a
book in his hand as usual." These and many other angry words came
harshly to my ears, on that June afternoon now so long ago. I was seated
in the small room over the kitchen which was appropriated to my use in
the dwelling of Farmer Judson, where I was employed as "chore boy," or,
in other words, the boy of all work.