WALKING TO MY FARM 
HE date is October four and the place 
Kansas, when I, a city man (O 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 ‘Nall aboard for— 
thu Santa—Fe—for Topeka, Santa Fe, 
San Francisco and the Philippines train on—the third track: Nall 
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 
169 
