His faith in the farm and farming swelled.
Dad was not a pessimist--when he had two hundred pounds.
"Say what they like," he held forth to Anderson and two other men across
the rails one evening--"talk how they will about it, there's money to be
made at farming. Let a man WORK and use his HEAD and know what to sow and
when to sow it, and he MUST do well." (Anderson stroked his beard in grave
silence; HE had had no wheat). "Why, once a farmer gets on at all he's
the most independent man in the whole country."
"Yes! Once he DOES!" drawled one of the men,--a weird, withered fellow
with a scraggy beard and a reflective turn of mind.
"Jusso," Dad went on, "but he must use his HEAD; it's all in th' head."
(He tapped his own skull with his finger). "Where would I be now if I
had n't used me head this last season?"
He paused for an answer. None came.
"I say," he continued, "it's a mistake to think nothing's to be made at
farming, and any man" ("Come to supper, D--AD!"--'t was Sal's voice)
"ought t' get on where there's land like this."
"LAND!" said the same man--"where IS it?"
"Where IS it?" Dad warmed up--"where IS N'T it? Is n't this land?"
(Looking all round.
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