crops of new enjoyment, he was unwilling to take them, but was content
with hay. It is a strange thing to me, and a sad one, how many of our
farmers (and be it said in a whisper, other people, too) own their lands
without ever really possessing them: and let the most precious crops of
the good earth go to waste.

After that, for a long time, Horace loved to joke me about my crops and
his. A joke with Horace is a durable possession.

"S'pose you think that's your field," he'd say.

"The best part of it," I'd return, "but you can have all I've taken, and
there'll still be enough for both of us."

"You're a queer one!" he'd say, and then add sometimes, dryly, "but
there's one crop ye don't git, David," and he'd tap his pocket where he
carries his fat, worn, leather pocket-book. "And as fer feelin's, it
can't be beat."

So many people have the curious idea that the only thing the world
desires enough to pay its hard money for is that which can be seen or
eaten or worn. But there never was a greater mistake. While men will
haggle to the penny over the price of hay, or fight for a cent more to
the bushel of oats, they will turn out their very pockets for strange,
intangible joys, hopes, thoughts, or for a moment of peace in a feverish
world the unknown great possessions.

So it was that one day, some months afterward, when we had been thus
bantering each other with great good humour, I said to him: