To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away with.
Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hands, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, ’midst sun and rain, ’midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature—it is impiety to Heaven—it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. Toil, I repeat—toil, either of the brain, or of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!
Orville Dewey.
RECITATION—The Corn Song.
(For a lad who holds a tall stalk of corn in left hand.)
Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard;
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has autumn poured
From her most lavish horn!