FARMERS TO THE FRONT 147 



Narrow the life that always has been hers, 

 The evening brings a longing to her breast; 



Deep in her heart some aspiration stirs, 

 And mocks her soul's unrest. 



Her tasks are mean and endless as the days, 

 And sometimes love can not repay all things; 



An instrument that rudely touched obeys, 

 Becomes discordant strings. 



The train that followed in the headlight's glare, 



Bound for the city and a larger world, 

 Made emphasis on her poor life of care, 



As from her sight it whirled. 



Thus from all lonely hearts the great earth rolls, 

 Indifferent though one woman grieve and die, 



Along its iron track are many souls 

 That watch the world go by. 



Is it not so ? There is a spiritual side to this ques- 

 tion of life on the farm that we can not safely ig- 

 nore. And the man who is not deeply interested in 

 making farm life all that it should be, and can be, is 

 not fit to be an American citizen. We may not be 

 able to bring the farm to the world, but we can take 

 something of the world, its life, its virtues, 

 its beauty and its intellectual stimulus to the farm. 

 Something of this has been done already, as has been 

 shown, but more remains to be done. We can not 

 cure human discontent and dissatisfaction, but we 

 can, and must, as far as possible, destroy those con- 

 ditions which give discontent and dissatisfaction a 

 reason for being. 



