Sometimes—­I confess it—­when I see one passing in my road, I feel like hailing him and saying: 

“Friend, I am not all farmer.  I, too, am a person; I am different and curious.  I am full of red blood, I like people, all sorts of people; if you are not interested in me, at least I am intensely interested in you.  Come over now and let’s talk!”

So we are all of us calling and calling across the incalculable gulfs which separate us even from our nearest friends!

Once or twice this feeling has been so real to me that I’ve been near to the point of hailing utter strangers—­only to be instantly overcome with a sense of the humorous absurdity of such an enterprise.  So I laugh it off and I say to myself: 

“Steady now:  the man is going to town to sell a pig; he is coming back with ten pounds of sugar, five of salt pork, a can of coffee and some new blades for his mowing machine.  He hasn’t time for talk”—­and so I come down with a bump to my digging, or hoeing, or chopping, or whatever it is.

——­Here I’ve left John Starkweather in my pasture while I remark to the extent of a page or two that I didn’t expect him to see me when he went by.

I assumed that he was out for a walk, perhaps to enliven a worn appetite (do you know, confidentially, I’ve had some pleasure in times past in reflecting upon the jaded appetites of millionnaires!), and that he would pass out by my lane to the country road; but instead of that, what should he do but climb the yard fence and walk over toward the barn where I was at work.

Perhaps I was not consumed with excitement:  here was fresh adventure!

“A farmer,” I said to myself with exultation, “has only to wait long enough and all the world comes his way.”

I had just begun to grease my farm wagon and was experiencing some difficulty in lifting and steadying the heavy rear axle while I took off the wheel.  I kept busily at work, pretending (such is the perversity of the human mind) that I did not see Mr. Starkweather.  He stood for a moment watching me; then he said: 

“Good morning, sir.”

I looked up and said: 

“Oh, good morning!”

“Nice little farm you have here.”

“It’s enough for me,” I replied.  I did not especially like the “little.”  One is human.

Then I had an absurd inspiration:  he stood there so trim and jaunty and prosperous.  So rich!  I had a good look at him.  He was dressed in a woollen jacket coat, knee-trousers and leggins; on his head he wore a jaunty, cocky little Scotch cap; a man, I should judge, about fifty years old, well-fed and hearty in appearance, with grayish hair and a good-humoured eye.  I acted on my inspiration: 

“You’ve arrived,” I said, “at the psychological moment.”

“How’s that?”

“Take hold here and help me lift this axle and steady it.  I’m having a hard time of it.”

The look of astonishment in his countenance was beautiful to see.