“Then I began to think that it is very true which is commonly said, that the one-half of the world knoweth not how the other half liveth.”

That was written by FranÇois Rabelais over 500 years ago. It is so true that it has entered the language as a proverb, or “old saying.” We hear it again and again in all classes of society. It is true that the great majority of us has no idea of the life or the life ambitions of the great world outside of our own little valley of thought. I suppose this failure to understand the “other half” is one of the things which do most to keep people apart and prevent anything like fair co-operation. It is the basis of most of the bitter intolerance which has ever been used by the “ruling classes” to keep the great mass of the people in subjection. Years ago some old lord or baron would build a strong castle on a hill and make the farmers for miles around believe that he “protected” them. Therefore, they built his castle free, gave their sons for his soldiers, and toiled on the land that he might live in idleness. And what did he “protect” them from? Why, from another group of farmers a few miles away, who, in like manner, were supporting another idle gang of cutthroats in another strong castle. These two groups of farmers did not need to be “protected” from each other. They had the same needs, the same wrongs and the same desires. Left to understand each other and to work together, they would have had no trouble, but would have led happier and far more prosperous lives. As it was they did not understand “how the other half liveth,” and thus they fought when they should have fraternized.

I find much of the same feeling between city people and farmers—consumers and producers. They do not understand how “the other half liveth,” and they find fault when they should from every point of economy work together. Your city man thinks the farmer has a soft job, and that with present high prices he is making a barrel of money. Either that or he is a slow-thinking drudge—a sort of inferior being, who doesn’t know any better than to carry the load which others strap on his back. He is “the backbone of the country” all right in a political campaign—but the backbone is merely a mechanical contrivance if you detach it from the brain. And the average farmer regards the city worker or commuter as a grafter—getting far more than he earns, and putting in short, easy days. It isn’t all graft and ease by a long way. Many of these city workers must travel miles to their jobs, and some of them put in longer hours than the average farmer. Many of them save little or nothing, and the wolf is always prowling around the door. Between these two classes it is a case of not knowing “how the other half liveth,” and this failure to understand has created a form of intolerance which separates two classes about as the old barons separated the groups of farmers years ago.

And something of the same lack of tolerant understanding has separated classes of farmers. The grain farmers, live-stock men, dairymen, gardeners and fruit growers all think at times that they have the hardest lot. The labor question, the markets or the weather all seem to turn against them. For instance, the dairymen usually think their lot is harder than that of others. They must work day after day in all sorts of weather and under hard conditions. I know about this, for I have worked on a dairy farm where conditions were very hard. Yet I also know that at this season the average dairyman has a good job compared with the life of the market gardener or fruit grower. On our own farm it has rained each day and night for many days. Get into a sweet corn or tomato field and pick the crop in a pouring rain, or pick early apples while the foliage is like a great sponge. Then sort out and pack, load the truck and travel through the rain to market, stand out in the rain and sell the load out to peddlers and dealers, and then hurry back home for another round of the same work. The fruit and vegetables are nearly as perishable as milk, and must be rushed promptly away. The dairyman knows beforehand what his milk will bring. The price may not be what he thinks is right, but he knows for weeks or months in advance what he can surely expect. We never know when we start what our stuff will bring. We must take what we can get for perishable fruit. We know what we have already spent, and what each load must bring in order to get our money back. Thus far corn is about equal in price to last year, tomatoes are lower, apples are at least 30 per cent lower, and so on. The dairyman has his troubles, but let him follow this job for a month and he would realize that “there are others.” In much the same way I can show that the potato men, the hay and grain farmers, the sheep men and all the rest, have their troubles—and hard ones at that. If farmers could only understand these things better, and realize that there are thorns and tacks in every so-called “soft job,” there would be greater tolerance in the world, and that is the only thing that can ever lead to true co-operation and fair treatment.

Pretty much the same thing is true of business. We ran upon a strange incident the other day. The city of Paterson, N. J., is a good market town. Work is well paid and the workmen are free spenders. It is a city of many breeds and races of men. On the market you will probably hear more languages and dialects than were used on the Tower of Babel. A large share of farm produce is distributed by peddlers—most of them of foreign blood. They are shrewd and tireless workers. I never can see when they sleep. Night after night they come on the market to buy produce, and day after day—through heat and cold, rain or shine—you see them driving their horses up and down the streets and lanes—always good-natured, always with a smile. Well, we sold Spot, our black cow, to one of these men—an Italian. Thomas had done business with him for some years. We had sold him many goods—he had always paid for them. He made part payment for the cow by giving about the most remarkable looking check I ever saw. It was on a first-class bank made out in a straggling hand, and signed by two names. We had passed several like it before through our bank, so I deposited it, as usual. In a few days it came back unpaid.

Thomas and I went to Paterson that night to see what was wrong. I wish some of you whose lives have been spent entirely in the country could see how this “other half liveth.” This man lived on a side street. The lower part of his house had been fitted as a little store. In the small backyard were several milk goats, a small flock of chickens and a shed, in which were two horses. Under a small, rude shelter of boards was old Spot, chewing away at green cornstalks. The man was a big, pleasant-faced Italian. You would mark him for an honest man on his appearance. There was a brood of children—eight or nine, I should say—and a pleasant-faced little wife, who carried the latest arrival around at her work. When confronted with the protested check, this man merely smiled and waved his hands. He could not read it! Two small boys—the oldest perhaps 12 years of age—seemed to be the only members of the family who could read and write English. They read the protest paper to their father and made him understand. He only smiled and spread out his hands as people do who talk with their shoulders. These two little boys had made out the check and signed it for their parents. They either did not figure out their bank balance, or figured it wrong. There was no attempt at dishonesty, and the check would finally be honored. That seemed to be all there was to it. These little boys, through the public school, represented all that these older people know of the great business life of America.

I know a good many Americans whose pedigrees run back close to Plymouth Rock. If some of them had let that check go in this way I should have loaded old Spot right on the truck and carried her home. Thomas knew this man and his reputation, and his way of doing business. He will pay, and in a few days of peddling he will pad out his bank account and then the check will go through. So we shook hands with him and came home. But that is the way “the other half liveth.” This man and woman came to a strange land too late in life to acquire a business education. They can work and plan, but must depend upon those little boys to do business which requires bookkeeping or banking. All the boys know about American business is what they learn at the public schools. I wish you could have seen the way that check was made out—yet any old piece of paper may be worth more than a gold-plated certificate if there is genuine character back of it. I am told that in most mill towns the banks carry a good many accounts just like this one; in fact, a good proportion of the business is conducted in about that way. It is said that some of the smaller manufacturers do not keep any set of books which enable them to figure their income tax! There are some men who could not buy a cow or a cat from us on credit, while others could have what credit they need right on their face and reputation.

There is another thing about this trade that will interest dairymen. We found old Spot giving about 18 quarts of milk per day, on a feed of green cornstalks and a little grain. This milk will sell for 18 cents, at least. The cow can live in that little shed until the middle of December, or about 120 days. In that time she will give 1,500 quarts or more, which, at 18 cents, means $270, and she can then be sold for at least $90 for beef! That makes $360 gross income for one cow in four months. Her feed will be mostly refuse tops and stalks from vegetables and a small amount of grain. She will be well cared for, carded and brushed every day, and made comfortable. Thus not half the cows know “how the other half liveth.” Someone will take these figures, multiply them by 25, and show what tremendous incomes our dairymen are making. The fact is this man can keep just one cow at a profit. If he kept two the extra cost of food would about eat up his profits. So we went whirling home through the dusk, thinking that we had had a glimpse at a little of the life of the other half, and it made me feel something more of charity for my fellow men. When you come to think of what the American public school means to that family, you realize the immense responsibility that goes with education. We can hardly be too careful about what our schools teach and how they teach it. I wonder how many of us, if we were transplanted to some foreign land, would be willing to turn our business over to our children and let them conduct it as they learned to do it from the schools! I think we would all be more tolerant and reasonable if we would let our children bring to us more of the spirit of youth and more of hope of the future. The rain had stopped, the sky had cleared, the wind had dried the grass, and on the lawn in front of the house our great army of children were dancing and playing as if there were no such thing as tomato rot, wet corn and low prices. I think that these handicaps would have seemed much lighter if we could have gone out and danced with the kids. I wonder where, along the road, we gave up doing that.