Young as I was, barely seven;

The library put me into a trance the first time I went there.
The musty smell of books was something already refined in heaven.
Maps on the walls showed me there was another part of the world that belonged to me, and my heart ached beyond Shamrock and the various Kingdoms of Drumright and Davenport.

We lived in the small town of Yale. People who visited us were enchanted with that name and the story of the great university. Once, on a cold, blustery night our more lettered kinfolks were visiting us. I leaned back on the homemade sofa, listening with all my might as they talked about Yale.

My most lettered Aunt Nora, a graduate of the Bible Institute, said to Papa, "Ben, it's a crying shame that with Yale a tin can's throw from you that Wilma can't plan to go there and get a degree in literature."

Papa told her with a great deal of feeling, "For God's sake, you know she could give them more stories than they could digest. Maybe if the oil holds out and we don't die, we can yet see our girl in a cap and gown."