"Life in the open; simple relations of people."
"Is Bill your highest ideal of man? By that definition he has the things that count."
"He's happier than either of us."
"Happy nothing! He's contented—tight in the only rut he knows. His mind is as active as rutebaga." She laughed at the homely word, but he went on with the idea. "Do you think he thrills at your mountains—sings rude hymns to your sunsets? Not he. The mountains are made for tourists, tourists are made for guides. As for sunset, well, that means time to sleep."
"It's true. Your 'plain man of the soil' is a hero only in novels. In real life he is apt to be a grub."
"I'd rather be a grub than a Broadway Johnny."
"Oh, let's talk about a man," he suggested, smiling.
"But where will you find him?"
"Somewhere between your two extremes. A man's sensibilities have to be opened to nature by training, as his mind is to books. You said it yourself, 'he's got to use all of himself.'"