Hiram the Young Farmer

“Well, after all, the country isn't such a bad place as some city folk think.”
The young fellow who said this stood upon the highest point of the Ridge Road, where the land sloped abruptly to the valley in which lay the small municipality of Crawberry on the one hand, while on the other open fields and patches of woodland, in a huge green-and-brown checkerboard pattern, fell more easily to the bank of the distant river.
Dotted here and there about the farming country lying before the youth as he looked westward were cottages, or the more important-looking homesteads on the larger farms; and in the distance a white church spire behind the trees marked the tiny settlement of Blaine's Smithy.
A Sabbath calm lay over the fields and woods. It was mid-afternoon of an early February Sunday—the time of the mid-winter thaw, that false prophet of the real springtime.
Although not a furrow had been turned as yet in the fields, and the snow lay deep in some fence corners and beneath the hedges, there was, after all, a smell of fresh earth—a clean, live smell—that Hiram Strong had missed all week down in Crawberry.
“I'm glad I came up here,” he muttered, drawing in great breaths of the clean air. “Just to look at the open fields, without any brick and mortar around, makes a fellow feel fine!”
He stretched his arms above his head and, standing alone there on the upland, felt bigger and better than he had in weeks.
For Hiram Strong was a country boy, born and bred, and the town stifled him. Besides, he had begun to see that his two years in Crawberry had been wasted.
“As a hustler after fortune in the city I am not a howling success,” mused Hiram. “Somehow, I'm cramped down yonder,” and he glanced back at the squalid brick houses below him, the smoky roofs, and the ugly factory chimneys.
“And I declare,” he pursued, reflectively, “I don't believe I can stand Old Dan Dwight much longer. Dan, Junior, is bad enough—when he is around the store; but the boss would drive a fellow to death.”