There have been times, too, when, driving home in my horse and buggy to work and a late supper, I have envied the town woman sitting on her cool veranda, her day's work done. That feeling always disappeared, however, the moment I felt the country breeze on my face; and again recent days have taught me that most town women work in one way or another, as hard as farm women, though perhaps, they call it social life.
There is that other kind of work that town women do, I mean in Women's Clubs, P.T.A.'s and all uplift movements. I speak of them with highest respect. They do much good and those who work in them, according to their intent, gain much from them.
As for me! I prefer down right labor. I feel as though I never want to go to a bridge party again and stretch my face to a polite smile. Nor wear a dance slipper, nor shop for a fancy dress. (Yet, oh! how I revel in a new supply of house dresses!)
It is not that I do not like fun, nor people. I love an evening at cards with friends. I dote on picnics and good theatres. I love to take people riding in my car. I have always been passionately eager for friends; so much so that I go almost to any length to have them, even to changing, or trying to, my personality.
But, now, somehow, I want my friends to please me, to measure up to my requirements. I do not want to say, "Yes, I love to read poetry," when I don't, just because the person inquiring does. I want friends who can enjoy this farm with me.
Lately I read that every one should have an island--such as had Robinson Crusoe--to which she could retire occasionally. I want to make this farm that island. For a little while I want to live away from the worrying, hurrying world and to forget it. I do not even want to read the newspapers. I know that Hoover is still president, that Lindy is still having a hard life with reporters, and I'm glad that I'm just a common person.
Perhaps this deterioration. Perhaps I have lost ambition or am shunting duties. I cannot think so. Right now it seems that I am getting more from the soil than the world can give me. And who knows but that, in time--like things that grow from the soil--from my sojourn here I can give four worthy citizens to the world; and what I can give to the world is always of more importance than what I get from it.