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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
152
Now,
I
am
not
so
foolish
as
to
imagine
that
a
farm
is
a
perfect
place.
In
these
Adventures
I
have
emphasised
perhaps
too
forcibly
the
joyful
and
pleasant
features
of
my
life.
In
what
I
have
written
I
have
naturally
chosen
only
those
things
which
were
most
interesting
and
charming.
My
life
has
not
been
without
discouragement
and
loss
and
loneliness
(loneliness
most
of
all).
I
have
enjoyed
the
hard
work;
the
little
troubles
have
troubled
me
more
than
the
big
ones.
I
detest
unharnessing
a
muddy
horse
in
the
rain!
I
don't
like
chickens
in
the
barn.
And
somehow
Harriet
uses
an
inordinate
amount
of
kindling
wood.
But
once
in
the
habit,
unpleasant
things
have
a
way
of
fading
quickly
and
quietly
from
the
memory.
And
you
see
after
living
so
many
years
in
the
city
the
worst
experience
on
the
farm
is
a
sort
of
joy!
In
most
men
as
I
come
to
know
them--I
mean
men
who
dare
to
look
themselves
in
the
eye--I
find
a
deep
desire
for
more
naturalness,
more
directness.
How
weary
we
all
grow
of
this
fabric
of
deception
which
is
called
modern
life.
How
passionately
we
desire
to
escape
but
cannot
see
the
way!
How
our
hearts
beat
with
sympathy
when
we
find
a
man
who
has
turned
his
back
upon
it
all
and
who
says
"I
will
live
it
no
longer."
How
we
flounder
in
possessions
as
in
a
dark
and
suffocating
bog,
wasting
our
energies
not
upon
life
but
upon
things.
Instead
of
employing
our
houses,
our
cities,
our
gold,
our
clothing,
we
let
these
inanimate
things
possess
and
employ
us--to
what
utter
weariness.
"Blessed
be
nothing,"
sighs
a
dear
old
lady
of
my
knowledge.
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