So when folks met him and Kerry they smiled and spoke, for we are friendly people and send no man to Coventry without great cause.  And there wasn’t a child, black or white, who didn’t know and like the man with the butterfly net.

The country people for miles around knew and loved him, too; for he walked up and down the earth and went to and fro in it, full of curious and valuable knowledge shared freely as the need arose.  He would glance at your flower-garden, for instance, and tell you what insect visitors your flowers had, and what you should do to check their ravages.  He’d walk about your out-buildings and commend white-wash, and talk about insecticides; and you’d learn that bees are partial to blue, but flies are not; and that mosquitoes seem to dislike certain shades of yellow.  And then he’d leave you to digest it.

He was a quiet evangelist, a forerunner of that Grand Army which will some day arise, not to murder and maim men, but to conquer man’s deadliest foe and greatest economic menace—­the injurious insect.

It was he who spread the tidings of Corn and Poultry and Live Stock Clubs, stopping by many a lonely farm to whisper a word in the ears of discouraged boys, or to drop a hint to unenlightened fathers and mothers.

He carried about in his pockets those invaluable reports and bulletins which the government issues for the benefit and enlightenment of farmers; and these were left, with a word of praise, where they would do the most good.

Those same bulletins from the Bureau of Entomology had planted in John Flint’s heart the seed which bore such fruit of good citizenship.  The whole course of his early years had tended to make him suspicious of government, which spelt for him police and prison, the whole grim machinery which threatened him and which he in turn threatened.  He had feared and hated it; it caught men and shut them up and broke them.  If he ever asked himself, “What can my government do for me?” he had to answer:  “It can put me in prison and keep me there; it can even send me to the Chair.”  Wherefore government was a thing to hate, to injure—­and to escape from.

The first thing he had ever found worthy of respect and admiration in this same government was one of its bulletins.

“Where’d you get this?”

“I asked for it, and the Bureau sent it.”

“Oh!  You’ve got a friend there!”

“No.  The bulletins are free to any one interested enough to ask for them.”

“You mean to say the government gets up things like this—­pays men to find out and write ’em up—­pays to have ’em printed—­and then gives ’em away to anybody?  Why, they’re valuable!”

“Yes; but they are nevertheless quite free.  I have a number, if you’d like to go over them.  Or you can send for new ones.”

“But why do they do it?  Where’s the graft?” he wondered.

“The graft in this case is common sense in operation.  If farms can be run with less labor and loss and more profit and pleasure, why, the whole country is benefited, isn’t it?  Don’t you understand, the government is trying to help those who need help, and therefore is willing to lend them the brains of its trained and picked experts?  It isn’t selfish thwart that aim, is it?”