years ago one of the largest business houses in Chicago put up a placard, just before election, stating that the proprietor considered his interests justly the interests of his clerks, and it was decidedly to his interests to have the Honorable Barnacle Bigbug re-elected.  All employes were requested to note well.  You see the crime of this dry-goods “prince” (how we all run to idiotic titles!) lay in subordinating the good of the State to the good of his particular millions.  He totally forgot that the good of each clerk was as much to be looked after by the Government as the good of his own ambitious flesh and blood.  He drowned every principle of democracy in the monarchical desire to “get it all and then give some away.”  The desire to give away is where the theory gives away.  Now this can never happen on the farm.

The plutocrats must always tremble before the man with hay-seed in his hair.  They cannot reach him.  They cannot tempt or debauch him.  Teach this to your sons.  Teach it with horses, buggies, churches, picnics, schools, books, rest, and travel.  Take the boys to the rank-smelling cities; show them the factories, the store-gangs, and the street gangs.  Then they will go home with joy in their hearts, and when Old Brindle moos and Old Sorrel whinnies in recognition at their gate you may be sure that the greedy city will never swallow up your sturdy sons, the pride of your declining years.  I have been somewhat earnest in this because my life on a farm was harder than circumstances make imperative nowadays.  Clearing is heavy work.  The culture of an Indiana opening among stumps that make a field look like a drag turned wrong-side-up leaves little chance for gymnasium or bath-room.  But all that is gone by.  I have been earnest, again, because

THE FOREIGNERS

are all getting our farms, while our own folk seem to think that a precarious existence as a rich man’s slave in the city, is a more sensible thing than to take advantage of opportunities for which the people of other worlds tear out their heart-strings, leave native climate, language, habits, government, everything, and hurry hitherward.  For shame upon ourselves!

My lord rides through his palace gate;
My lady sweeps along in state;
The sage thinks long on many a thing
And the maiden muses on marrying;
The minstrel harpeth merrily,
The sailor plows the foaming sea,
The huntsman kills the good red deer,
And the soldier wars without a fear;
Nevertheless, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.

[Illustration]

TEMPERANCE

O thou invisible spirit of wine; if thou hast no name to be known
by, let us call thee—­devil.—­Shakspeare.