The man pressed the tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. His eyes were hidden.
“I know,” he said. “It’s the way I feel. Most folks feel good when spring starts life moving again. You don’t ever get to the cities?”
Molly’s eyes widened as she shook her head.
“Only Hartspool for dry goods.”
“It’s a poor sort of settlement. But it isn’t that.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You know, Molly, folk just can’t live alone always,” McFardell went on, his eyes on the litter of his homestead. “That’s the thing. We’re human, and all that that means. We’re not machines to work like—like a thresher. We need companionship—our own kind and age. We want things to laugh at, or get mad about. We want things over which we can exercise all those moods and feelings Nature gave us. You’re feeling that way and don’t know it, or maybe your grit won’t let you admit it.”
The girl was just a little frightened. She knew that Andy had put into words something of her own secret thoughts.
“Maybe that’s so,” she hesitated, while she wondered admiringly at his penetration. “You know, Andy, it’s real ungrateful of us to feel that way. Get a look around. There’s nigh everything we folk need. There’s sweet grass you couldn’t find anywhere else. There’s the rivers full of fish. There’s shelter the Almighty set for us. There’s the wonderful, wonderful sun, and an earth ready to grow us the things we ask it. There’s——”
“Always that crazy human feeling we just can’t help.” McFardell nodded. “That’s why I went into Hartspool yesterday—to buy that bit of—bacon.”