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Is given by the thought that all is mine, that none
    Do rob, that love adds to each stroke its rich
      And sweetening cheer: In such rare world that I have won----"

The housekeeper rudely broke the spell!

"You comrades had better eat that poetry for dinner," she said.

We all looked and all understood--all save the poet. He looked aghast,
thinking in Yiddish.

"Go on," somebody said, but the poet was a sensitive youth and could
sense an atmosphere quicker than most of us.

"Wood," said the housekeeper, pointing at the few sticks lying around
the block.

"Ah," exclaimed the poet as he took up the axe, "you shall have it,
comrade--have it good and plenty."

He laid the poem in the white birch frame against a stone and
proceeded. We moved away, every man to his own place.

In a community where the communers have to chop the fire-wood, canned
salmon is a good standby.

That day we had salmon for dinner.

Just as a matter of encouragement I had the artist of the community
print a Latin motto in fine Gothic characters:

  "LABORARE EST ORARE"

This I tacked to the block at the woodpile. We had one orator in the
community--just one.

Next morning, when the motto stared him in the face, he said: "Gee
whiz! that's great--Labour is oratory!" It was a blow at a venture in
the interpretation of Latin and instead of wood to cook the breakfast
we had a speech on the labour of the orator!

The idea that I was giving land away got noised abroad, and a thousand
letters of inquiry came to me. Most of the inquirers asked if I gave
"deeds" to the land.

Others got an idea that I had a coöperative colony and all they had to
do was to come and plant themselves on the land. I never intended to
organize a colony but I did invite some families to enjoy the summer
on the farm.

I shall not ask as many next year for I have no talent as a manager
and it takes more management than I imagined to look after even half a
dozen families.

I had a number of parties from the city during the summer--the largest
being from the Church of the Ascension and the Cosmopolitan Church.
From Ascension Church came a young men's club on Decoration day. I
introduced the boys to their first experience in archery.

The people from the Cosmopolitan Church came on a Sunday and I took
them over the hill to call on my friends, the Franciscan monks, of the
society of the Atonement. The Franciscans are my nearest neighbours on
the north and on the south is my neighbour Mr. Epstein, a Russian
Jewish farmer.

From the north we have had an intellectual and moral fellowship and
from the south the comradeship of the soil.

To Mr. Epstein's bull we are indebted for the element of excitement--a
very necessary element if one could get it in any sort of orderly
arrangement.

The bull objected to Mr. Epstein interfering in what might be called
his (the bull's) family affairs. He tossed his owner into the air
three times one afternoon in my meadow and, but for the timely
interference of a dog, would have gathered the farmer to his fathers.
Several of our community saw the incident, but the vibrations had a
more enervating effect than even those around the woodpile, and being
armed only with the first law of nature they left the honours of the
incident to the dog.

The following Sunday morning I saw a crowd in Mr. Epstein's orchard.
It looked like a small county fair. A cow doctor had been imported to
perform an operation on the bull. Mr. Epstein and his muzik, Michael,
almost came to blows in trying to decide which of them should put the
yoke on the bull's neck. No decent farmer will stand aloof in such a
crisis: so I threw my coat off and offered my services. The patient
made serious objections to me, but permitted the yoke to be adjusted
by a day labourer named Harvey Outhouse.

This Holstein aristocrat had a terrible come-down. He used to stalk
around as if he owned the earth, but now he is a common "hewer of wood
and drawer of water" like ourselves.

I see him occasionally, now, pulling a heavy load of stones or hay
past our place as meekly and quiet as the dull ox by his side, and
involuntarily I exclaim: "How are the mighty fallen!"

I have a horse and a cow. The artist of the community, who remains as
one of my family, took charge of the cow and the care of the horse was
distributed among the rest of us. The house is made comfortable and
snug for the winter and I have settled down here for the remainder of
my life.

With my family are these two comrades, the artist and the mechanic,
and we are in complete harmony in work and ideals. I have been a gypsy
most of my life. I am to have a respite now. Here in this corner of
Putnam County I have found my happy hills of rest. My work will always
be in the city but here my home is to me and here I am to do my
writing, thinking, living. In the solitude of these woods I am to find
inspiration and quiet, here I am to dream my dreams and see my
visions. I am forty-seven years of age now, but I have the health and
vigour of a boy and I feel that for me life has just really begun. I
have but one ambition: it is not wealth, or fame, or even rest. It is
to be of service to my fellow-men; for that is my highest conception
of service to God.

This memoir is but a catalogue of events--a series of milestones that
I have passed. My life has been at times such a tempest and at other
times such a calm, and between these extremes I have failed so often
and my successes have been so phenomenal that the world would not
believe a true recital of the facts, even though I were able to write
them.

The conflicts of the soul, the scalding tears that bespeak the
breaking heart, can not be reduced to print. Nevertheless, I hope that
what I have written may be of encouragement to my fellow-travellers
along the highway of life, especially men who mistakenly imagine they
have been worsted in the fight.

There is a great truth in the doctrine of the economic interpretation
of history but there is also truth, and a mighty truth, in the
spiritual interpretation of life. The awakened human soul is
indissolubly inknit with the warp and woof of things divine. It fights
not alone, it is linked with God.

    "No man is born into the world whose work
    Is not born with him; there is always work
    And tools to work withal for those who will.
    And blessed are the horny hands of toil!
    The busy world shoves angrily aside
    The man who stands with arms akimbo set,
    Until occasion tells him what to do;
    And he who waits to have his task worked out--
    Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled."

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