I keep resolving and resolving to reform and lead the simple life, but something always happens that prevents the execution of my plans.  When I am grubbing out willows along the ravine, the grubbing-hoe, a lunch-basket well filled, and a jug of water from the deep well up there under the trees seem to be the sum total of the necessary appliances for a life of usefulness and contentment.  There is a friendly maple-tree near the scene of the grubbing activities, and an hour at noon beneath that tree with free access to the basket and the jug seems to meet the utmost demands of life.  The grass is luxuriant, the shade is all-embracing, and the willows can wait.  So, what additions can possibly be needed?  I lie there in the shade, my hunger and thirst abundantly satisfied, and contemplate the results of my forenoon’s toil with the very acme of satisfaction.  There is now a large, clear space where this morning there was a jungle of willows.  The willows have been grubbed out imis sedibus, as our friend Virgil would say it, and not merely chopped off; and the thoroughness of the work gives emphasis to the satisfaction.

The overalls, the heavy shoes, and the sunshade hat all belong in the picture.  But the entire wardrobe costs less than the hat I wear on Sunday.  Then the comfort of these inexpensive habiliments!  I need not be fastidious in such a garb, but can loll on the grass without compunction.  When I get mud upon my big shoes I simply scrape it off with a chip, and that’s all there is to it.  The dirt on my overalls is honest dirt, and honestly come by, and so needs no apology.  I can talk to my neighbor John of the big things of life and feel no shame because of overalls.

Then, in the evening, when resting from my toil, I sit out under the leafy canopy and revel in the sounds that can be heard only in the country—­the croaking of the frogs, the soft twittering of the birds somewhere near, yet out of sight, the cosey crooning of the chickens as they settle upon their perches for the night, and the lonely hooting of the owl somewhere in the big tree down in the pasture.  I need not move from my seat nor barter my money for a concert in some majestic hall ablaze with lights when such music as this may be had for the listening.  Under the magic of such music the body relaxes and the soul expands.  The soft breezes caress the brow, and the moon makes shimmering patterns on the grass.

But when I return to the town to resume my school-mastering, then the strain begins, and then the reign of complexities is renewed.  When I am fully garbed in my town clothing I find myself the possessor of nineteen pockets.  What they are all for is more than I can make out.  If I had them all in use I’d have to have a detective along with me to help me find things.  Out there on the farm two pockets quite suffice, but in the town I must have seventeen more.  The difference between town and country seems to be about the difference between grubbing willows and schoolmastering.  Among the willows I find two pockets are all I require; but among the children I must needs have nineteen, whether I have anything in them or not.