THINGS
I keep resolving and resolving to reform and lead the simple life,
but something always happens that prevents the execution of my plans.
When I am grubbing out willows along the ravine, the grubbing-hoe, a
lunch-basket well filled, and a jug of water from the deep well up
there under the trees seem to be the sum total of the necessary
appliances for a life of usefulness and contentment. There is a
friendly maple-tree near the scene of the grubbing activities, and an
hour at noon beneath that tree with free access to the basket and the
jug seems to meet the utmost demands of life. The grass is
luxuriant, the shade is all-embracing, and the willows can wait. So,
what additions can possibly be needed? I lie there in the shade, my
hunger and thirst abundantly satisfied, and contemplate the results
of my forenoon's toil with the very acme of satisfaction. There is
now a large, clear space where this morning there was a jungle of
willows. The willows have been grubbed out _imis sedibus_, as our
friend Virgil would say it, and not merely chopped off; and the
thoroughness of the work gives emphasis to the satisfaction.
The overalls, the heavy shoes, and the sunshade hat all belong in the
picture. But the entire wardrobe costs less than the hat I wear on
Sunday. Then the comfort of these inexpensive habiliments! I need
not be fastidious in such a garb, but can loll on the grass without
compunction. When I get mud upon my big shoes I simply scrape it off
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
efficiency pocket; another a discipline pocket; another a pocket for
methods; another for professional spirit; another for loyalty to all
the folks who are in need of loyalty, and so on. I really do not
know all the labels. When I was examined for a license to teach they
counted my pockets, and, finding I had the requisite nineteen, they
bestowed upon me the coveted document with something approaching
_eclat_. In my teaching I become so bewildered ransacking these
pockets, trying to find something that will bear some resemblance to
the label, that I come near forgetting the boys and girls. But they
are very nice and polite about it, and seem to feel sorry that I must
look after all my pockets when I'd so much rather be teaching.
Out in the willow thicket I can go right on with my work without so
much care or perplexity. Why, I don't need to do any talking out
there, and so have time to do some thinking. But here I do so much
talking that neither I nor my pupils have any chance for thinking. I
know it is not the right way, but, somehow, I keep on doing it. I
think it must be a bad habit, but I don't do it when I am grubbing
willows. I seem to get to the bottom of things out there without
talking, and I can't make out why I don't do the same here in the
school. Out there I do things; in here I say things. I do wonder if
there is any forgiveness for a schoolmaster who uses so many words
and gets such meagre results.
And then the words I use here are such ponderous things. They are
not the sort of human, flesh-and-blood words that I use when talking
to neighbor John as we sit on top of the rail fence. These all seem
so like words in a book, as if I had rehearsed them in advance. It
may be just the town atmosphere, but, whatever it is, I do wish I
could talk to these children about decimals in the same sort of words
that I use when I am talking with John. He seems to understand me,
and I think they could.
Possibly it is just the tension of town life. I know that I seem to
get keyed up as soon as I come into the town. There are so many
things here, and many of them are so artificial that I seem unable to
relax as I do out there where there are just frogs, and moon, and
chickens, and cows. When I am here I seem to have a sort of craze
for things. The shop-windows are full of things, and I seem to want
all of them. I know I have no use for them, and yet I get them. My
neighbor Brown bought a percolator, and within a week I had one. I
had gone on for years without a percolator, not even knowing about
such a thing, but no sooner had Brown bought one than every sound I
heard seemed to be inquiring: "What is home without a percolator?"
So I go on accumulating things, and my den is a veritable medley of
things. They don't make me any happier, and they are a great bother.
There are fifty-seven things right here in my den, and I don't need
more than six or seven of them. There are twenty-two pictures, large
and small, in this room, but I couldn't have named five of them had I
not just counted them. Why I have them is beyond my comprehension.
I inveigh against the mania of people for drugs and narcotics, but my
mania for things only differs in kind from theirs. I have a little
book called "Things of the Mind," and I like to read it. Now, if my
mind only had as many things in it as my den, I'd be a far more
agreeable associate for Brown and my neighbor John. Or, if I were as
careful about getting things for my mind as I am in accumulating
useless bric-a-brac, it would be far more to my credit.
If the germs that are lurking in and about these fifty-seven things
should suddenly become as large as spiders, I'd certainly be the
unhappy possessor of a flourishing menagerie, and I think my progress
toward the simple life would be very promptly hastened.