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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
13
"Horace,"
I
said,
looking
him
straight
in
the
eye,
"did
you
call
me
an--Agriculturist!"
I
have
rarely
seen
a
man
so
pitifully
confused
as
Horace
was
at
that
moment.
He
flushed,
he
stammered,
he
coughed,
the
perspiration
broke
out
on
his
forehead.
He
tried
to
speak
and
could
not.
I
was
sorry
for
him.
"Horace,"
I
said,
"you're
a
Farmer."
We
looked
at
each
other
a
moment
with
dreadful
seriousness,
and
then
both
of
us
laughed
to
the
point
of
holding
our
sides.
We
slapped
our
knees,
we
shouted,
we
wriggled,
we
almost
rolled
with
merriment.
Horace
put
out
his
hand
and
we
shook
heartily.
In
five
minutes
I
had
the
whole
story
of
his
humorous
reports
out
of
him.
No
real
friendship
is
ever
made
without
an
initial
clashing
which
discloses
the
metal
of
each
to
each.
Since
that
day
Horace's
jean-clad
leg
has
rested
many
a
time
on
my
fence
and
we
have
talked
crops
and
calves.
We
have
been
the
best
of
friends
in
the
way
of
whiffle-trees,
butter
tubs
and
pig
killings--but
never
once
looked
up
together
at
the
sky.
The
chief
objection
to
a
joke
in
the
country
is
that
it
is
so
imperishable.
There
is
so
much
room
for
jokes
and
so
few
jokes
to
fill
it.
When
I
see
Horace
approaching
with
a
peculiar,
friendly,
reminiscent
smile
on
his
face
I
hasten
with
all
ardour
to
anticipate
him:
"Horace,"
I
exclaim,
"you're
a
Farmer."
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