WE foolish folk are discontented with things where’er we chance to
dwell. “The air,” we say, “is sweeter scented in some far distant dale
or dell.” And so we pull up stakes and travel to seek the fair and
promised land, and find our Canaan is but gravel, a wilderness of rocks
and sand. “Across the hills the fields are greener,” we murmur, “and the
view more fair; the water of the brooks is cleaner, and fish grow larger
over there.” And so we leave our pleasant valley, from all our loving
friends we part, and o’er the stony hills we sally, to reach a land that
breaks the heart. “There’s gold in plenty over yonder,” we say, “and we
shall seek the mines.” Then from our cheerful homes we wander, far from
our fig trees and our vines; a little while our dreams we cherish, and
think that we can never fail; but, tired at last, we drop and perish,
and leave our bones upon the trail. How happy is the man whose nature
permits him to enjoy his home, who, till compelled by legislature,
declines in paths afar to roam! There is no region better, fairer, than
that home region that you know; there are no zephyrs sweeter, rarer,
than those which through your galways blow.
[Illustration]
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