Twenty or thirty 324 men and women were mowing the clover and gathering it in stacks. Among them we saw our host, clad in a blue Russian blouse, white linen trousers and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He looked a picturesque figure in his simple national dress with his long white hair and beard, among his workingmen. Seeing us he lifted his hat and walked toward us with the pitchfork on his shoulder. We are just in need of help.
Clover is ripe and the weather is glorious.
After a few conventional remarks on our side, we started talking together. It is to me a book of books and a museum of museums. My city friends come ask me if I have heard this or that orchestra, or if I have seen this or that new opera or new play. I reply, I don't need the arts of civilization when I have real art, the perfect play and the best music right here. They say I am deluded.