t--the illusion was
over-powering--they were living, eager hands outstretched to the
passing throng I could feel, hear, see the farmers up there in the
hills reaching out to me, to all the world, for a thousand inexpressible
things, for more life, more companionship, more comforts, more money.

It occurred to me at that moment, whimsically and yet somehow seriously,
that I might respond to the appeal of the shy country road and the
outstretched hands. At first I did not think of anything I could
do--save to go up and eat dinner with one of the hill farmers, which
might not be an unmixed blessing!--and then it came to me.

"I will write a letter!"

Straightway and with the liveliest amusement I began to formulate in my
mind what I should say:

Dear Friend: You do not know me. I am a passerby in the road. My name is
David Grayson. You do not know me, and it may seem odd to you to receive
a letter from an entire stranger. But I am something of a farmer myself,
and as I went by I could not help thinking of you and your family and
your farm. The fact is, I should like to look you up, and talk with you
about many things. I myself cultivate a number of curious fields, and
raise many kinds of crops--

At this interesting point my inspiration suddenly collapsed, for I had
a vision, at once amusing and disconcerting, of my hill farmer (and his
practical wife!) receiving such a letter (along with the country paper,
a circular advertising a cure for catarrh, and the most recent catalogue
of the largest mail-order house in creation). I could see them standing
there in their doorway, the man with his coat off, doubtfully scratching
his head as he read my letter, the woman wiping her hands on her apron
and looking over his shoulder, and a youngster squeezing between the two
and demanding, "What is it, Paw?"

I found myself wondering how they would receive such an unusual letter,
what they would take it to mean. And in spite of all I could do, I
could imagine no expression on their faces save one of incredulity and
suspicion. I could fairly see the shrewd worldly wise look come into the
farmer's face; I could hear him say:

"Ha, guess he thinks we ain't cut our eye-teeth!" And he would instantly
begin speculating as to whether this was a new scheme for selling
him second-rate nursery stock, or the smooth introduction of another
sewing-machine agent.

Strange world, strange world! Sometimes it seems to me that the hardest
thin