g of all to believe in is simple friendship. Is it not a comment
upon our civilization that it is so often easier to believe that a
man is a friend-for-profit, or even a cheat, than that he is frankly a
well-wisher of his neighbours?

These reflections put such a damper upon my enthusiasm that I was on the
point of taking again to the road, when it came to me powerfully: Why
not try the experiment? Why not?

"Friendship," I said aloud, "is the greatest thing in the world. There
is no door it will not unlock, no problem it will not solve. It is,
after all, the only real thing in this world."

The sound of my own voice brought me suddenly to myself, and I found
that I was standing there in the middle of the public road, one clenched
fist absurdly raised in air, delivering an oration to a congregation of
rural-mail boxes!

And yet, in spite of the humorous aspects of the idea, it still appeared
to me that such an experiment would not only fit in with the true object
of my journeying, but that it might be full of amusing and interesting
adventures. Straightway I got my notebook out of my bag and, sitting
down near the roadside, wrote my letter. I wrote it as though my life
depended upon it, with the intent of making some one household there in
the hills feel at least a little wave of warmth and sympathy from the
great world that was passing in the road below. I tried to prove the
validity of a kindly thought with no selling device attached to it; I
tried to make it such a word of frank companionship as I myself, working
in my own fields, would like to receive.

Among the letter-boxes in the group was one that stood a little detached
and behind the others, as though shrinking from such prosperous company.
It was made of unpainted wood, with leather hinges, and looked shabby
in comparison with the jaunty red, green, and gray paint of some of the
other boxes (with their cocky little metallic flags upraised). It bore
the good American name of Clark--T. N. Clark--and it seemed to me that I
could tell something of the Clarks by the box at the crossing.

"I think they need a friendly word," I said to myself.

So I wrote the name T. N. Clark on my envelope and put the letter in his
box.

It was with a sense of joyous adventure that I now turned aside into the
sandy road and climbed the hill. My mind busied itself with thinking how
I should carry out my experiment, how I should approach these Clarks,
and how and what they