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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
59
It
is
curious,
hard
physical
labour!
One
actually
stops
thinking.
I
often
work
long
without
any
thought
whatever,
so
far
as
I
know,
save
that
connected
with
the
monotonous
repetition
of
the
labour
itself--down
with
the
spade,
out
with
it,
up
with
it,
over
with
it--and
repeat.
And
yet
sometimes--mostly
in
the
forenoon
when
I
am
not
at
all
tired--I
will
suddenly
have
a
sense
as
of
the
world
opening
around
me--a
sense
of
its
beauty
and
its
meanings--giving
me
a
peculiar
deep
happiness,
that
is
near
complete
content--
Happiness,
I
have
discovered,
is
nearly
always
a
rebound
from
hard
work.
It
is
one
of
the
follies
of
men
to
imagine
that
they
can
enjoy
mere
thought,
or
emotion,
or
sentiment!
As
well
try
to
eat
beauty!
For
happiness
must
be
tricked!
She
loves
to
see
men
at
work.
She
loves
sweat,
weariness,
self-sacrifice.
She
will
be
found
not
in
palaces
but
lurking
in
cornfields
and
factories
and
hovering
over
littered
desks:
she
crowns
the
unconscious
head
of
the
busy
child.
If
you
look
up
suddenly
from
hard
work
you
will
see
her,
but
if
you
look
too
long
she
fades
sorrowfully
away.
--Down
toward
the
town
there
is
a
little
factory
for
barrel
hoops
and
staves.
It
has
one
of
the
most
musical
whistles
I
ever
heard
in
my
life.
It
toots
at
exactly
twelve
o'clock:
blessed
sound!
The
last
half-hour
at
ditch-digging
is
a
hard,
slow
pull.
I'm
warm
and
tired,
but
I
stick
down
to
it
and
wait
with
straining
ear
for
the
music.
At
the
very
first
note,
of
that
whistle
I
drop
my
spade.
I
will
even
empty
out
a
load
of
dirt
half
way
up
rather
than
expend
another
ounce
of
energy;
and
I
spring
out
of
the
ditch
and
start
for
home
with
a
single
desire
in
my
heart--or
possibly
lower
down.
And
Harriet,
standing
in
the
doorway,
seems
to
me
a
sort
of
angel--a
culinary
angel!
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