Then they will go home with joy in their hearts, and when Old Brindle
moos and Old Sorrel whinnies in recognition at their gate you may be
sure that the greedy city will never swallow up your sturdy sons, the
pride of your declining years. I have been somewhat earnest in this
because my life on a farm was harder than circumstances make imperative
nowadays. Clearing is heavy work. The culture of an Indiana opening
among stumps that make a field look like a drag turned wrong-side-up
leaves little chance for gymnasium or bath-room. But all that is gone
by. I have been earnest, again, because
THE FOREIGNERS
are all getting our farms, while our own folk seem to think that a
precarious existence as a rich man's slave in the city, is a more
sensible thing than to take advantage of opportunities for which the
people of other worlds tear out their heart-strings, leave native
climate, language, habits, government, everything, and hurry hitherward.
For shame upon ourselves!
My lord rides through his palace gate;
My lady sweeps along in state;
The sage thinks long on many a thing
And the maiden muses on marrying;
The minstrel harpeth merrily,
The sailor plows the foaming sea,
The huntsman kills the good red deer,
And the soldier wars without a fear;
_Nevertheless, whate'er befall_,
_The farmer he must feed them all_.
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