In the hot field below, a man was ploughing amid the glare of the sun. The reins hung about his neck like a halter, and he clung to the jerking handles of the plough while the furrows of red earth turned and fell behind him like welts on the flank of the hill.
"A hard life," said the second beggar, draining his cup, "but healthy! And very useful! The world must have bread."
"Plenty of it," said the third beggar, "else what would become of that?"
He nodded down the valley, where tall spires pointed toward the blue and taller chimneys veiled it with black. The huddled city seemed to move and strain and quiver under the dusky curtain, and the fumes of its toil hung over it like steam from a sweating horse.
"It is a sad sight," said the fourth beggar, waving his hand with the gesture of an orator. "Shakespeare was right when he said, 'God made the country and man made the town.' Admit for the present that cities are necessary evils. The time is coming when every man must have his country-place. Meanwhile let us cultivate the rural virtues."
He smacked his lips and lifted the flagon.
"Right," said the first beggar, "a toast! To the simple life!"
So the four quaffed a cupful of wine—and I a puff of smoke—to the simple life.
In the bush was a bird, very busy catching flies. He perched on a branch, darted into the air, caught his fly, and fluttered to another branch. Between flies he chirped and twittered cheerfully.
"Beautiful bird," said the first beggar, leaning back, "a model of cheerful industry! What do they call him?"