blind instincts. The human soul, that thing whose 

 satisfaction is so often a box of chocolates and a silk 

 petticoat, may be better and higher than the soul of 

 a mouse, may be a different thing indeed; but origi- 

 nally it, too, had simple, healthful instincts; and 

 among them, atrophied now, but not wholly gone, 

 may still be found the desire for a life that is more 

 than something to eat and something to put on. 



To be sure, here on the farm, one may eat all of his 

 potatoes, his corn, his beans and squashes before the 

 long, lean winter comes to an end. But if squashes 

 to eat were all, then he could buy squashes, bigger, 

 fairer, fatter ones, and at less cost, no doubt, at the 

 grocery store. He may need to eat the squash, but 

 what he needs more, and cannot buy, is the raising 

 of it, the harvesting of it, the fathering of it. He needs 

 to watch it grow, to pick it, to heft it, and have his 

 neighbor heft it; to go up occasionally to the attic 

 and look at it. He almost hates to cat it. 



A man may live in the city and buy a squash and 

 eat it. That is all he can do with a boughten squash ; 

 for a squash that he cannot raise, ho cannot store, 

 nor take delight in outside of pie. And can a man 

 live where his garden is a grocery.? his storehouse a 



4: 



