ignorance of the contents of the bottles because I cannot read the
labels. I have no freedom because I do not know the truth. The
dapper clerk who takes down one bottle after another with refreshing
freedom relegates me to the kindergarten, and I certainly feel and
act the part.

I had this same feeling, too, when I was making ready to sow my
little field with alfalfa. I wanted to have alfalfa growing in the
field next to the road for my own pleasure and for the pleasure of
the passers-by. A field of alfalfa is an ornament to any landscape,
and I like to have my landscapes ornamental, even if I must pay for
it in terms of manual toil. I had never even seen alfalfa seed and
did not in the least know how to proceed in preparing the soil. If I
ever expected to have any freedom I must first learn the truth, and a
certain modicum of freedom necessarily precedes the joy of alfalfa.

Thus it came to pass that I set about learning the truth. I had to
learn about the nature of the soil, about drainage, about the right
kinds of fertilizer, and all that, before I could even hitch the team
to a plough. Some of this truth I gleaned from books and magazines,
but more of it I obtained from my neighbor John, who lives about two
hundred yards up the pike from my little place. John is a veritable
encyclopedia of truth when it comes to the subject of alfalfa. There
I would sit at the feet of this alfalfa Gamaliel. Be it said in
favor of my reactions that I learned the trick of alfalfa and now
have a field that is a delight to the eye. And I now feel qualified
to give lessons in alfalfa culture to all and sundry, so great is my
sense of freedom.

I came upon a forlorn-looking woman once in a large railway-station