Newark post., 1914-03-25

The old superstition that there
were spirits in the earth which
were evil for man has passed away
though it still is strongly held i'll
China and elsewhere. But there is
truth back of it, as back Of most
superstitions. There is a spirit i'll
each particular kind Of toll which
struggles with the spirits Of men
and often masters the human self.
The farmer who follows the ploW
day after day feels the influence of
the clods. He ceases active mental
work; the thought of religion, art,
science or literature fades. The
smooth bottom of the furrOw gets
into his mind and gives it nothing,
the turning sod occupies him. The
brain yields to the influence of re-
peated burrows, he whistles, he
feels the sweat upon him, unless he
is watchful he fails to notice the
singing bird, the beauty Of the ben
ediction Of the sky be becomes a
companion of his team; no more.
How often have | seen such men
as have surrendered. Their walk
is the same as they fell into behind
the plow handles; their eyes are
like those of oxen, seeing but not
thinking; their hands are folded
one on the other in confession of
habitual mental repression. They
talk as the horses might talk, of hay
and oats and corn and weather and
good grass. The spirit Of the plow-
ed fields has overcome the divine
spirit and made them like indus
triOus ants; admirable, but not
really individual.
When this process continues, gen
Grafton after generation, we have
such people as the poorest peasants
of Europe. No murders, no treach-
cries of rulers has matched in any
age the murder of the aspirations
and the treachery to the souls Of
the common people, which have
made the peasants resemble cows
They come pouring in, refugees
from industrial infernos, blindly
seeking life and liberty, through
our ocean ports. Whether they
read or not, whether or not they be
covered with dirt from the slavery
of the ages, clothed in strange gar
ments, speaking strange tongues.
following strange customs, repel-
lent to those of us who are of more
advanced states, still they are the
most tragic, the most pitiable, the
most wonderful of all the fugitives
OF time. Centuries of expressions,
robberies, outrages, infamies I'M
speakable, have been poured upon
them. Their jaws have retreated
as the result Of hunger and half
hunger, their forheads have grown
low with lack of culture, their very
stature to which none can add any
thing has been shortened by the
rulers who have denied them for
ages the birthright of access to the
land and just opportunity to gain
reward for their labors. Yet, mir
acle Of all miracles, these come
II coping by the million TO our gates
asking still for liberty. the right to
live, to love, to feed full on COM
mon grains and meats, to try to
find God in freedom. to rise above
the domination of the ground.
Out of the plowed furrow
springs all that makes man great.
The food and clothing of the world .
are the supplies from which poet
ry, painting, religion, civilization
at its best, is drawn. All other men
can be spared, but the man with
the pillow handles before him and
the brown earth beneath can not be
spared. And yet he is always be-
ing scorned and left behind as of
little importance. First at his task
and last to gain a fair reward, he
is the Atlas on which rests the
world.
1t is idle to ask other classes to
aid him; the farmer must himself /