THE SIMPLE LIFE. 121 



farmer as an intelligent human with longings 

 and desires such as we possess. And yet within 

 his soul hope lingers as in ours. Ambitions 

 there do stir, and dwelling therein is perhaps 

 more of the milk of human kindness, more of 

 the love of fellow man than with us is found. 

 He alone produces, we consume. Between us 

 and starvation he it is who stands. Unto him. 

 therefore, should we give credit due. For him 

 we should at least have that respect which right- 

 fully belongs to an honest toiling servant. 



Sheltered by an umbrella from a drizzling 

 rain, I at noontime tend my turtle broth. From 

 the doorway of my tent I travel back and forth 

 to the furnace. The smoke and flames rise pret- 

 tily from my fire of chips and sticks. No wood 

 have I cut while here encamped, but instead 

 have broken by hand the larger pieces of a long- 

 seasoned brush pile. An old fodder-shock, 

 thrown over to the cows, but scorned by them 

 when the juicy blue-grass is so plentiful, has 

 furnished me kindling. My house needs no 

 paint, my stove no blacking. My turtle broth 

 this noon-day is more delicious than if cooked 

 over a hundred-dollar gas range in the palace 

 of a millionaire. No one of that class can boast 

 of a purer water supply than that which wells 

 forth from my hillside spring. Here I have a 

 broad margin to my summer days. Here I am 

 only a creature of the God of whim. 



