"
What then? This at least; if we live in an age of mechanism let us
see to it that we are a race of intelligent mechanics; and if man
is to be the Daemon of a machine let him know the setting of the
knives, the rise of the piston, the part that each wheel and rod
plays in the economy of the whole, the part that he himself plays,
co-operating with it. Then, when he has lived and served
intelligently, let us give him of our flocks and of our floor that
he may learn to rest in the lengthening shadows until he is called
to his work above.
So I sat, hammering out my thoughts, and with them the conviction
that stonebreaking should be allotted to minor poets or vagrant
children of nature like myself, never to such tired folk as my poor
mate at the cross-roads and his fellows.
At noon, when I stopped for my meal, the sun was baking the hard
white road in a pitiless glare. Several waggons and carts passed,
the horses sweating and straining, with drooping, fly-tormented
ears. The men for the most part nodded slumberously on the shaft,
seeking the little shelter the cart afforded; but one shuffled in
the white dust, with an occasional chirrup and friendly pressure on
the tired horse's neck.
Then an old woman and a small child appeared in sight, both with
enormous sun-bonnets and carrying baskets. As they came up with me
the woman stopped and swept her face with her hand, while the
child, depositing the basket in the dust with great care, wiped her
little sticky fingers on her pinafore.
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