or the house
and barn, they had reached that final stage of decay in which the
best thing that could be said of them was that they were picturesque.
Everything was as different from the farm of the energetic and joyous
Stanleys, whose work I had shared only a few days before, as anything
that could be imagined.

Now, my usual way of getting into step with people is simplicity itself.
I take off my coat and go to work with them and the first thing I
know we have become first-rate friends. One doesn't dream of the
possibilities of companionship in labour until he has tried it.

But how shall one get into step with a man who is not stepping?

On the porch of the farmhouse, there in the mid-afternoon, a man sat
idly; and children were at play in the yard. I went in at the gate, not
knowing in the least what I should say or do, but determined to get hold
of the problem somewhere. As I approached the step, I swung my bag from
my shoulder.

"Don't want to buy nothin'," said the man.

"Well," said I, "that is fortunate, for I have nothing to sell. But
you've got something I want."

He looked at me dully.

"What's that?"

"A drink of water."

Scarcely moving his head, he called to a shy older girl who had just
appeared in the doorway.

"Mandy, bring a dipper of water."

As I stood there the children gathered curiously around me, and the man
continued to sit in his chair, saying absolutely nothing, a picture of
dull discouragement.

"How they need something to stir them up," I thought.

When I had emptied the dipper, I sat down on the top step of the porch,
and, without saying a word to the man, placed my bag beside me and began
to open it. The shy girl paused, dipper in hand, the children stood
on tiptoe, and even the man showed signs of curiosity. With studied
deliberation I took out two books I had with me and put them on the
porch; then I proceeded to rummage for a long time in the bottom of the
bag as though I could not find what I wanted. Every eye was glued upon
me, and I even heard the step of Mrs. Clark as she came to the but I did
not look up or speak. Finally I pulled out my tin whistle and, leaning
back against the porch column, placed it to my lips, and began playing
in Tom Madison's best style (eyes half closed, one toe tapping to
the music, head nodding, fingers lifted high from the stops), I began
playing "Money Musk," and "Old Dan Tucker." Oh, I put vim into it, I can
tell you! And bad as my pla