rovert the
sentiments set forth in Alfred's tribute to the "Back to the Farm" life,
yet there appeared in all the papers that had given publicity to
Alfred's speech, a diatribe from Bill Brown, headed "The Truth," as
follows:

PITTSBURGH, PA.

I have read with much interest Al. G. Field's address on "The
Farm." If you will pardon my profanity for a minute, I will say
"Damn the Farm."

Our paths through the woods on the farm must have been
different. Al. pursued the cotton tail through the level and
green grassy meadows, getting pleasure in pursuit, and which
left no traces of his going; I pursued the ever ready pole cat
through hollows, over logs and stone piles, which left nothing
but bruises, but I found more pleasure in pursuit than
possession.

Al. had patches, freckles and laughter; I had rags, bruises and
tears. Al. took the path down to the spring through the hazel
bushes; I took the stony road to a mudhole through thorns and
blackberry bushes.

Al. caught nice yellow perch with a cork bobber; I caught
suckers with a paper bobber, for there were no corks used on our
farm. Al. fished on Sunday; I went to church at 10 o'clock,
Sunday School at 11, church again at 1:30, and perchance prayer
meeting in the evening.

Al. smelled the new earth from a two seated surrey or horseback;
I smelled the new earth from the back of the harrow or plow.

Al. watched the dogwoods bud, and breathed their fragrance as
they budded; I felt the dogwood switches drop on my poor back
and bare limbs.

Al. had to be told when it was dark and when it was morning. I
knew when I was told to quit work that it was dark and bed-time,
and knew that it was daylight when I was yanked out of bed to
walk two miles before breakfast to bring in a lot of cows.

Al. had a nice "coverlit" over his bed, and turned into a nice
feather bed and rested in peace. I rolled myself up in a
worn-out horse blanket, and turned into a tick filled with
straw, shivering until I got to sleep and kept on shivering. Oh
yes, I cherish the days on the farm and will never forget them.

But a more pleasant recollection to me is the day that I left
the cackling of the hens, the braying of the donkey, the
bellowing of the cows, and the old plow standing in the furrow,
where I hope it still stands.

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