There was no farmhouse on this short bend. Then north
for five miles. The road was as level as a table top--a
good, smooth, hard-beaten, age-mellowed prairie-grade.
The land to east and west was also level; binders were
going and whirring their harvest song. Nobody could have
felt more contented than I did. There were two clusters
of buildings--substantial buildings--set far back from
the road, one east, the other one west, both clusters
huddled homelike and sheltered in bluffs of planted
cottonwoods, straight rows of them, three, four trees
deep. My horse kept trotting leisurely along, the wheels
kept turning, a meadow lark called in a desultory way
from a nearby fence post. I was "on the go." I had torn
up my roots, as it were, I felt detached and free; and
if both these prosperous looking farms had been my
property--I believe, that moment a "Thank-you" would have
bought them from me if parting from them had been the
price of the liberty to proceed. But, of course, neither
one of them ever could have been my property, for neither
by temperament nor by profession had I ever been given
to the accumulation of the wealth of this world.
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