more with the drill and the harrow,
planting seed against another harvest.

Sometime during these winter days, I chanced upon a book which effected
a profound change in my outlook on the world and led to far-reaching
complications in my life. This volume was the Lovell edition of
_Progress and Poverty_ which was at that time engaging the attention of
the political economists of the world.

Up to this moment I had never read any book or essay in which our land
system had been questioned. I had been raised in the belief that this
was the best of all nations in the best of all possible worlds, in the
happiest of all ages. I believed (of course) that the wisdom of those
who formulated our constitution was but little less than that of
archangels, and that all contingencies of our progress in government had
been provided for or anticipated in that inspired and deathless
instrument.

Now as I read this book, my mind following step by step the author's
advance upon the citadel of privilege, I was forced to admit that his
main thesis was right. Unrestricted individual ownership of the earth I
acknowledged to be wrong and I caught some glimpse of the radiant
plenty of George's ideal Commonwealth. The trumpet call of the closing
pages filled me with a desire to battle for the right. Here was a theme
for the great orator. Here was opportunity for the most devoted evangel.

Raw as I was, inconspicuous as a grasshopper by the roadside, I still
had something in me which responded to the call of "the prophet of San
Francisco," and yet I had no definite intention of becoming a
missionary. How could I?

Penniless, dependent upon the labor of my hands for a livelihood,
discontented yet unable to decide upon a plan of action, I came and went
all through that long summer with laggard feet and sorrowful
countenance.

My brother Franklin having sold his claim had boldly advanced upon
Chicago. His ability as a bookkeeper secured him against want, and his
letters were confident and cheerful.

At last in the hour when my perplexity was greatest--the decisive
impetus came, brought by a chance visitor, a young clergyman from
Portland, Maine, who arrived in the town to buy some farms for himself
and a friend. Though a native of Madison Mr. Bashford had won a place in
the east and had decided to put some part of his salary into Dakota's
alluring soil. Upon hearing that we were also from Wisconsin he came to
call and stayed to dinner, and be