Such was the home in which I was born one mild, rainy day in the merry month of May – a Sunday, to be exact. From now on I mean to follow the order of events conscientiously and to stop anticipating. If reports are true, the birth was slow and difficult and required the assistance of our family doctor, whose name was Mecum. It appears that I – if I may so refer to that far-away and foreign little being – was extremely inactive and made no attempt to aid my mother’s efforts, showing no eagerness whatever to enter the world which later I was to love so dearly. Nevertheless, I was a healthy, well-formed child and thrived most promisingly at the breast of my excellent wet-nurse. Frequent reflection on this subject, moreover, inclines me to the belief that this reluctance to exchange the darkness of the womb for the light of day is connected with my extraordinary gift and passion for sleep.