Man should be as happy and free as the little bird that sings from 

 the topmost bough. Instead, he is a slave to his own appetite, to his 

 own passions, to the world of custom around him. Isn't it a strange 

 and mysterious arrangement of things that forces a man to spend the 

 greater part of his life walking up and down behind a counter delving 

 out wares to his fellow men, with aching feet on hard floors, -with foul, 

 dusty air for the lungs, and not one moment during the long day that 

 he can call his own, tired feet, worn nerves, heartache, headache; each 

 day is finished with a sigh, only to be commenced again by the clock 

 tomorrow with dread, and the only hope that keeps him on the job is 

 the hope of some day realizing that ideal which lies back of this make- 

 believe life. Many a man spends his days at the bench doing work 

 with his physical body in unhealthy places while his mind dwells in 

 that ideal world which he builds for himself with flowers and trees and 

 vines and luscious things to eat and peace of mind and health of body 

 and joys untold. 



Illusion upon illusion, we are born in illusion and go on deluding 

 ourselves through life that we are doing the thing that brings us the 

 nearer our hearts' desire. Self perfection is the highest duty of man, 

 and the thing for us to do "all the days of our life under the sun" is 

 that work that will give the highest physical development, the broadest 

 mental outlook, the cleanest moral nature and the largest independence. 



Manufactured articles and food products are juggled from man to 

 man all over the world for the purpose of the extra gain between 

 trades. 



Railroads rumble through every village with materials for barter, 

 and boats sail to every port with materials to satisfy the desires of men, 

 all for the profit reckoned in dollars. Commerce is one huge Herculean 

 task of trading wares to the people of the world, and so busy do men 

 become with this endless task that they have no time or thought for 

 their own personal care or comfort, and their three score years and ten 

 are run without a chance to taste the real joys of living. 



Men are only cogs in the great machine that caters to the wants of 

 the world. Some work in leather goods, others with iron all the days of 

 their life. Some produce fruit of various kinds and pass it on to those 

 who do not. Some raise wheat, some corn, or hogs, or cows, or eggs. 

 Each individual settles down to a groove, whether he likes it or not, for 

 he must eat, and if he does not produce his eats he must gather them 

 in from those that do. 



This division of labor makes specialists in the many different 

 industries, which insures higher class articles. The great danger lies in 

 the specialist becoming a slave to his specialty. Each specialist is 

 driven to the limit in his production in order that he may keep up 

 with custom and feed, clothe and house himself, A life of sameness 

 also becomes monotonous and one-sided. To grow prunes all the days 

 of life becomes irksome. To make shoes, or watches, or engines every 

 day for years crushes the individual independence out of man. He is 

 no longer a man, but a piece of machinery. 



The man that labors for another for wage is not a free man. He has 

 sold his time. Neither is the man that invests his money in another's 

 time a free man, for he is bound to make a profit on that man's time or 



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