with a chip, and that's all there is to it. The dirt on my overalls
is honest dirt, and honestly come by, and so needs no apology. I can
talk to my neighbor John of the big things of life and feel no shame
because of overalls.

Then, in the evening, when resting from my toil, I sit out under the
leafy canopy and revel in the sounds that can be heard only in the
country--the croaking of the frogs, the soft twittering of the birds
somewhere near, yet out of sight, the cosey crooning of the chickens
as they settle upon their perches for the night, and the lonely
hooting of the owl somewhere in the big tree down in the pasture. I
need not move from my seat nor barter my money for a concert in some
majestic hall ablaze with lights when such music as this may be had
for the listening. Under the magic of such music the body relaxes
and the soul expands. The soft breezes caress the brow, and the moon
makes shimmering patterns on the grass.

But when I return to the town to resume my school-mastering, then the
strain begins, and then the reign of complexities is renewed. When I
am fully garbed in my town clothing I find myself the possessor of
nineteen pockets. What they are all for is more than I can make out.
If I had them all in use I'd have to have a detective along with me
to help me find things. Out there on the farm two pockets quite
suffice, but in the town I must have seventeen more. The difference
between town and country seems to be about the difference between
grubbing willows and schoolmastering. Among the willows I find two
pockets are all I require; but among the children I must needs have
nineteen, whether I have anything in them or not.

One of these seems to be designed for a college degree; another is an