WALKING TO MY FARM 



>HE date is October four and the place 

 Kansas, when I, a city man (0 the pity 

 of it!) land at a siding on a hilltop to 

 take a day apart from the city calendar 

 and rest my heart in the country quiet, 

 away from the huckster, with his strident 

 vociferations ; away from the ragman, 

 with his highly-developed theories of eco- 

 nomics and his equally highly-developed 

 lungs; away from the jangle of street 

 cars and the ceaseless grind of wagon- 

 wheels in their industrious pursuits ; away 

 from the blue-coated policeman, with his 

 vigilant " Move on, there!" enforced with 

 his uplifted billy; away from the train- 

 caller, with his nasal "Nail aboard for 

 thu Santa Fe for Topeka. Santa Fe, 

 San Francisco and the Philippines train on the third track: Nail 

 aboard;" and then, in a lower and confidential voice adds, "The Santa 

 Fe is now ready." Away from this jargon without the courtesy of a 

 good-bye ; for I slipped off as if trying to avoid an officer ; and here I am 

 on the siding, with the day before me and no wagon grinding along the 

 pavement, nor any street car clanging at me with its virago bell ; here, 

 with autumn's quietness about me and the day before me, My heart, 

 carpe diem. Enjoy, enjoy this day. 



And I will. I shall walk to my farm. Those who always ride miss 

 a good share of delight if their way leads through the country. Flowers 

 and leaves and pastorals must be seen close at hand. Nature says 



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