The poor man who never was a country boy, and made cider, milked the cows, ran off and went swimming, kissed the girls at apple-cuttings and husking bees, bred stone-bruises on his heels, stacked hay in a high wind and mowed it away in a hot loft, swallowed quinine in scraped apple and castor oil in cold coffee, taught the calves to drink and fed them, manipulated the churn-dasher, ate molasses and sulphur and drank sassafras tea in the spring to purify his blood,—that poor man has lived his sinful life in vain!

The hewers of wood and the drawers of water do but little of the real work of the world. The horse, the ox, the insensate thing of steam and steel, does quite as much and more. But the men who dream,—who put something of brain and heart and soul into the clods and fashion them into things of beauty for mankind,—these lift the burdens off the shoulders of the race and plant a song upon the lips of toil!