“Yes, but——­”

“Isn’t it honest and useful work?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t it important that it shall not only be done, but well done?”

“Certainly.”

“It takes all there is in a good man,” I said, “to be a good farmer.”

“But the point is,” he argued, “might not the same faculties applied to other things yield better and bigger results?”

“That is a problem, of course,” I said.  “I tried money-making once—­in a city—­and I was unsuccessful and unhappy; here I am both successful and happy.  I suppose I was one of the young men who did the work while some millionnaire drew the dividends.” (I was cutting close, and I didn’t venture to look at him).  “No doubt he had his houses and yachts and went to Europe when he liked.  I know I lived upstairs—­back—­where there wasn’t a tree to be seen, or a spear of green grass, or a hill, or a brook:  only smoke and chimneys and littered roofs.  Lord be thanked for my escape!  Sometimes I think that Success has formed a silent conspiracy against Youth.  Success holds up a single glittering apple and bids Youth strip and run for it; and Youth runs and Success still holds the apple.”

John Starkweather said nothing.

“Yes,” I said, “there are duties.  We realise, we farmers, that we must produce more than we ourselves can eat or wear or burn.  We realise that we are the foundation:  we connect human life with the earth.  We dig and plant and produce, and having eaten at the first table ourselves, we pass what is left to the bankers and millionnaires.  Did you ever think, stranger, that most of the wars of the world have been fought for the control of this farmer’s second table?  Have you thought that the surplus of wheat and corn and cotton is what the railroads are struggling to carry?  Upon our surplus run all the factories and mills; a little of it gathered in cash makes a millionnaire.  But we farmers, we sit back comfortably after dinner, and joke with our wives and play with our babies, and let all the rest of you fight for the crumbs that fall from our abundant tables.  If once we really cared and got up and shook ourselves, and said to the maid:  ’Here, child, don’t waste the crusts:  gather ’em up and to-morrow we’ll have a cottage pudding,’ where in the world would all the millionnaires be?”

Oh, I tell you, I waxed eloquent.  I couldn’t let John Starkweather, or any other man, get away with the conviction that a millionnaire is better than a farmer.  “Moreover,” I said, “think of the position of the millionnaire.  He spends his time playing not with life, but with the symbols of life, whether cash or houses.  Any day the symbols may change; a little war may happen along, there may be a defective flue or a western breeze, or even a panic because the farmers aren’t scattering as many crumbs as usual (they call it crop failure, but I’ve noticed that the farmers still continue to have plenty to eat) and then what happens to your millionnaire?  Not knowing how to produce anything himself, he would starve to death if there were not always, somewhere, a farmer to take him up to the table.”