had returned as from some far-off glorious land of achievement. My
improved dress, my changed manner of speech, everything I said, roused
in them a kind of rebellious rage and gave them unwonted power of
expression. Their mood was no doubt transitory, but it was as real as my
own.

Men who were growing bent in digging into the soil spoke to me of their
desire to see something of the great eastern world before they died.
Women whose eyes were faded and dim with tears, listened to me with
almost breathless interest whilst I told them of the great cities I had
seen, of wonderful buildings, of theaters, of the music of the sea.
Young girls expressed to me their longing for a life which was better
worth while, and lads, eager for adventure and excitement, confided to
me their secret intention to leave the farm at the earliest moment. "I
don't intend to wear out my life drudging on this old place," said
Wesley Fancher with a bitter oath.

In those few days, I perceived life without its glamor. I no longer
looked upon these toiling women with the thoughtless eyes of youth. I
saw no humor in the bent forms and graying hair of the men. I began to
understand that my own mother had trod a similar slavish round with
never a full day of leisure, with scarcely an hour of escape from the
tugging hands of children, and the need of mending and washing clothes.
I recalled her as she passed from the churn to the stove, from the stove
to the bedchamber, and from the bedchamber back to the kitchen, day
after day, year after year, rising at daylight or before, and going to
her bed only after the evening dishes were washed and the stockings and
clothing mended for the night.

The essential tragedy and hopelessness of most human life under the
conditions into which our society was swiftly hardening embittered me,
called for expression, but even then I did not know that I had found my
theme. I had no intention at the moment of putting it into fiction.

The reader may interrupt at this point to declare that all life, even
the life of the city is futile, if you look at it in that way, and I
reply by saying that I still have moments when I look at it that way.
What is it all about, anyhow, this life of ours? Certainly to be forever
weary and worried, to be endlessly soiled with thankless labor and to
grow old before one's time soured and disappointed, is not the whole
destiny of man!

Some of these things I said to Emma and Matilda but thei