After all, the most delightful thing about a visit to the cities is the trip home. I take no joy in seeing sky-scrapers so high that you have to swallow your Adam's apple three times before you can see to the top of one. And the streets are crowded with abominations of noise and speed that make the foot-passenger from the country get about like a whirling dervish. And you find the men you know all working like mad for other people, so that they can earn money with which to hire other people to serve them with the necessaries of life. They get salaries from corporations that enable them to buy the products of other corporations that are all intent on charging all the traffic will bear. This sort of thing is doubtless very businesslike and modern and up-to-date, but if I went back to it I should feel very much as if I were being put through a sausage-mill to appease the hunger of some monster whose appetite I could not understand. I am afraid my powers of reasoning are not what they used to be, for although I can see the homely common sense of raising potatoes and vegetables and apples and such-like things for my own use, I cannot figure out where I should be benefited by living the strenuous life so that I could earn enough to buy potatoes and apples of a poorer and somewhat faded character from some one else. As nearly as I can see, our methods of handling and distributing our food products merely take away from the quality and add to the price, and no one is benefited but those incomprehensible people who devote their lives to accumulating profits instead of to acquiring leisure and enjoying life. The problem is too deep for me.

I thought I loved the country before, but this time I see it in a new light. After I had left the last great city and began to watch the trees whirling past the car windows I had a sense of companionship never felt before. They seemed so much alive and so serene and friendly that I began to quote:

The wild trees of the forest—all too scattered—were best. They had an air of independence and privacy, as if they might be the amused custodians of world-old secrets that they guarded even beyond the surprisal of those whom they had admitted to fellowship—after long probation. Even the orchards—reared in captivity—looked as if they were aware of their importance in the scheme of things and knew unfathomable mysteries. After weeks of talk about all manner of feverish and unimportant things, the smiling taciturnity of Nature was reassuring and healing. The clear air was laden with the balm of forgetfulness. As I watched the rushing moving-picture show I felt that it was worthy the contemplation of a God, and knew that I was privileged in being allowed a glimpse of it and a glimmer of its significance. To those who love the cities they may be not simply endurable but glorious in times of plenty, but to those who love the country, the country is the perfect home, rich in never-failing fountains of delight and inspiration. Before many months have passed thousands may be forced to choose between them.

My choice has been already made and I have no regrets.

THE END

The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS U. S. A

Transcriber's Note:—
Punctuation errors have been corrected.
The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.
Page 46. inaudibile changed to inaudible. (some inaudible syncopated rhythm)
Page 147. physchology changed to psychology. (to the psychology of women)
page 173. propellors changed to propellers. (whirling propellers of aeroplanes)
Page 188. claustraphobia changed to claustrophobia. (smitten by a claustrophobia)