Dear Dr. Larch. Thank you for your doctor's bag, although it seems that I will not have...

[We see Homer writing to Dr. Larch and hear the words in his voice as we are shown variously relevant scenes] Homer: Dear Dr. Larch. Thank you for your doctor's bag, although it seems that I will not have the occasion to use it, barring some emergency, of course. I am not a doctor. With all due respect to your profession, I'm enjoying my life here. I'm enjoying being a lobsterman and orchardman. In fact, I've never enjoyed myself as much. The truth is, I want to stay here. I believe I'm being of some use. [We hear the words Dr. Larch writes back to Homer in response] Dr. Wilbur Larch: My Dear Homer: I thought you were over you adolescence - the first time in our lives when we imagine we have something terrible to hide from those who love us. Do you think it's not obvious to us what's happened to you? You've fallen in love, haven't you? By the way, whatever you're up to can't be too good for your heart. Then again, it's the sort of condition that could be made worse by worrying about it, so don't worry about it. [the back and forth correspondence continues interwoven with scenes from Homer's life at the time] Homer: Dear Dr. Larch, What I'm learning her may not be as important as what I learned from you, but everything is new to me. Yesterday, I learned how to poison mice. Field mice girdle an apple tree; pine mice kill the roots. You use poison oats and poison corn. I know what you have to do. You have to play God. Well, killing mice is as close as I want to come to playing God. Dr. Wilbur Larch: Homer, here in St. Cloud's, I have been given the opportunity of playing God or leaving practically everything up to chance. Men and women of conscience should sieze those moments when it's possible to play God. There won't be many. Do I interfere when absolutely helpless women tell me they simply can't have an abortion - that they simply must go through with having another and yet another orphan? I do not. I do not even recommend. I just give them what they want. You are my work of art, Homer. Everything else has been just a job. I don't know if you have a work of art in you, but I know what your job is: you're a doctor. Homer: I'm not a doctor. Dr. Wilbur Larch: You're going to replace me, Homer. The board of trustees is looking for my replacement. Homer: I can't replace you. I'm sorry. Dr. Wilbur Larch: "Sorry"? I'm not sorry. Not for anything I've done. I'm not even sorry that I love you. [Cut to scene of Dr. Larch sitting on a hospital bed reading Homer's letter. He is crest-fallen and one of his nurses sits down to console him] Dr. Wilbur Larch: [Speaking to the nurse] I think we may have lost him to the world.

He sniffs that ether. I've seen him do it. It's because he's too tired to sleep. He has to. He smells like he could put you to sleep. He's a doctor, Buster. Doctors smell like ether. - You're a doctor, Homer. You don't smell like ether. - I'm not a doctor. I haven't been to medical school. I haven't even been to high school. - But you've studied with the old man for years. - I'm not a doctor. I'm sorry, Homer. Fuzzy is not uncommon. There's something about the premature babies of alcoholic mothers. They seem to be susceptible to every damn thing that comes along. I haven't read that. I haven't either, but you will. Those morons who write the books ought to do some research here. Isn't Fuzzy just underdeveloped? When doesn't he have bronchitis? I wouldn't call his bronchial infection underdeveloped, would you? Come on, Fuzz. Here we go. Feet up. There you are. - What's going on here? - Sit up straight. Wilbur? Wilbur, can you come out here, please? There you go. - Hi, Homer. - Hey. What is it, Mary Agnes? Now calm down. - What is it? - Look. Oh. Uh, did you bite it? - Did you bite your tongue? - I don't remember. Uh, yeah. That looks like you bit it. You'll be fine. Well, maybe I was kissing someone and he bit me. Oh, I think you bit it. Maybe in your sleep. Story time, Fuzzy. O Lord, support us all the day long... until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes... and the busy world is hushed and the fever of life is over... and our work is done. Then in Thy mercy, - grant us a safe lodging and a holy rest... And peace at the last. - Amen. - Amen. "A dog, which had lain concealed till now... "ran backwards and forwards on the parapet... "with a dismal howl. "And collecting himself for a spring, "jumped for the dead man's shoulders. "Missing his aim, he fell into a ditch... "turning completely over as he went... "and striking his head against the stone, dashed out his brains." - And that... - Is the end of the chapter. That's it till tomorrow. Good night, you Princes of Maine, you Kings of New England. Good night, Princes of Maine, Kings of New England. Whoa. John, you all right? Why does Dr. Larch say that every night? - Maybe to scare us. - No, you jerk. Dr. Larch loves us. But why does he do that? - Does it because we like it. - Do you like it, Curly? Yeah. I like it too. Watch the door. You two get Copperfield and Curly. Buster's mine. - And remember, nobody touches Fuzzy. - Attack! Hey! - Ow! - Ouch. What do you think you're doing? Children, stop it. No fighting. Share the snowballs. Fuzzy. Fuzzy. Listen to you. You've been running. Hey, over here! Look! Pick me! I know the type. They'll take one of the babies. Mary Agnes. Come here. Don't run. Fuzzy. Curly. John. Hazel. Andy. They wanted a girl, Curly. Nobody ever wants me.