The Finest Life 



as far as is comfortable, without ostentation, 

 but it costs our cityling a fortune, and he can 

 only obtain it after a life's labour. The farmer 

 counts them as naught, and grumbles because he 

 never grows rich. Rich! good gracious! when he 

 lives like a sporting millionaire on a small scale ! 



I have a number of friends of this class, living 

 in charming houses (one has a trout stream and 

 lakelet in its terraced garden), all with hunting 

 horses, most with motors, all having shooting 

 galore, their own milk supply, eggs, honey, fruit, 

 butter, bread, beer, poultry, and bacon; they 

 have the best of health, are thoroughly occupied, 

 and therefore (sure result) are happy. They are 

 rarely bored, for there is something fresh on a 

 farm every hour of the day and day of the year, 

 and no two years or fields are alike. Yes, they are 

 happy. If you ask them they deny it with grumb- 

 lings, but that is because they lack introspection 

 and without being aware of it are the luckiest 

 class in England. 



Of course all is not plain sailing; there are 

 various currents and fortunes. The old-fashioned 

 gentleman farmer, the cream of the race, is 

 departing, for he was not business-like, and his 

 place is taken by those who have the aptitude to 

 change with the times — enterprising men who 

 mean money and go in for getting it. The old- 



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