Feed the world, and it can live, work, produce and march on. Starve it, and what becomes of railroads, banks, mills, mines, notes, mortgages and bonds?
Great is the might of this republic!—great in its schools, churches, courts, legislatures; great in its towns and cities; great in its commerce, great in its manufactures, great in its colossal wealth.
But sweep from under it all these worn and wasted fields, strike into idleness or death the plowman, his wife and his child, and what becomes of the gorgeous structure whose foundation is his field?
Halt the food growers, and what becomes of your gold and its “intrinsic value”?
How much of your gold can you eat?
How many of your diamonds will answer the need of a loaf?
But enough.
It is time to ride down the hill. The tinkle of the cow-bell follows the sinking sun—both on the way home.
So with many an unspoken thought I ride homeward, thinking of those who plant the corn.
And hard indeed would be the heart that, knowing what these people do and bear and suffer, yet would not fashion this prayer to the favored of the republic: “O rulers, lawmakers, soldiers, judges, bankers, merchants, editors, lawyers, doctors, preachers, bondholders! Be not so unmindful of the toil and misery of those who feed you!”