“And think,” said I, “of living a life in which you are beholden to no man. It's a free life, the farmer's life. No one can discharge you because you are sick, or tired, or old, or because you are a Democrat or a Baptist!”
“Well, but—”
“And think of having to pay no rent, nor of having to live upstairs in a tenement!”
“Well, but—”
“Or getting run over by a street-car, or having the children play in the gutters.”
“I never did like to think of what my children would do if we went to town,” said Mrs. Clark.
“I guess not!” I exclaimed.
The fact is, most people don't think half enough of themselves and of their jobs; but before we went to bed that night I had the forlorn T. N. Clark talking about the virtues of his farm in quite a surprising way.
I even saw him eying me two or three times with a shrewd look in his eyes (your American is an irrepressible trader) as though I might possibly be some would-be purchaser in disguise.
(I shall write some time a dissertation on the advantages, of wearing shabby clothing.)