AN OLD FARM 147 



mentalness of it all. It was a complete 

 chapter in intrinsic democracy. The man- 

 ners were democratic, the conversation 

 was democratic, the very "soul of the 

 feast" was democratic. Never was it in 

 any way apparent that one man owned 

 the farm and the other men worked for 

 wages. James Doolittle was simply the 

 perfect host and these sunburned fellows 

 were ravenously hungry. "Billy, your 

 plate begins to look empty again/' After 

 all the years the words are still charged 

 with comradeship ! 



Thinking of harvest time there comes 

 to my mind another scene. "Hands" 

 were "short," and I was trying to help 

 out by driving a team. Unfortunately, 

 we went too near a nest of bumblebees. 

 They stung the horses and came at me. 

 I lost control, the machine struck a stump 

 and canted over, the driver was flung 

 sprawling. James Doolittle was on hand, 

 as he was ever on hand, and his laughter 

 sounded out louder than the whistle of 



