I am an American.I was born and reared in Hartford,in the State of Connecticut --anyway,just over the river,in the country.So I am a Yankee of the Yankees --and practical;yes,and nearly barren of sentiment,Isuppose --or poetry,in other words.My father was a blacksmith,my uncle was a horse doctor,and I was both,along at first.Then I went over to the great arms factory and learned my real trade;learned all there was to it;learned to make everything:guns,revolvers,cannon,boilers,engines,all sorts of labor-saving machinery.Why,I could make anything a body wanted --anything in the world,it didn't make any difference what;and if there wasn't any quick new-fangled way to make a thing,I could invent one --and do it as easy as rolling off a log.I became head superintendent;had a couple of thousand men under me.
Well,a man like that is a man that is full of fight --that goes without saying.With a couple of thousand rough men under one,one has plenty of that sort of amusement.I had,anyway.At last I met my match,and I got my dose.It was during a misunderstanding conducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to call Hercules.He laid me out with a crusher alongside the head that made everything crack,and seemed to spring every joint in my skull and made it overlap its neighbor.Then the world went out in darkness,and I didn't feel anything more,and didn't know anything at all --at least for a while.
When I came to again,I was sitting under an oak tree,on the grass,with a whole beautiful and broad country landscape all to myself --nearly.