em to develop a
high degree of mechanical skill. The pioneer American farmer had to be his
own carpenter and blacksmith. He had to build his own house and make his
own harness. Consequently, before this Farmers' Republic was two
generations old, the reaper was born in the little workshop behind the
barn.

In the Old World every occupation stood alone and aloof. The mechanics
knew nothing of the farm and the farmer knew nothing of the workshop.
"Every man to his trade," said Europe, Asia, and Africa. But in the New
World, where trades and classes and nationalities were flung together in a
heterogenous jumble, there sprang up a race of handy, inventive farmers,
set free from the habits and prejudices of their fathers. They were the
first body of men who were competent to solve the problem of farm
machinery.

And so, the American harvester is much more than a handy device for
cutting grain. It is the machine that makes democracy possible. It reaches
the average man, and more--it pushes the ladder of prosperity down so far
that even the farm labourer can grasp the lowest rung and climb. _It has
become one of our national emblems. It is as truly and as exclusively
American as the Stars and Stripes or the Declaration of Independence._

CHAPTER V

THE HARVESTER AND THE AMERICAN FARMER

If the American Farmer went out of business this year he could clean up
thirty thousand million dollars. And he would have to sell his farm on
credit; for there is not enough money in the whole world to pay him half
his price.

Talk of the money-mad Trusts! They might have reason to be mad if they
owned the farms, instead of their watered stock. When we remember that the
American Farmer earns enough in seventeen days to buy out Standard Oil,
and enough in fifty days to wipe Carnegie and the Steel Trust off the
industrial map, the story of the trusts seems like the "short and simple
annals of the poor."

One American harvest would buy the kingdom of Belgium, king and all. Two
would buy Italy. Three would buy Austria-Hungary. And five, at a spot
cash price, would take Russia from the Czar.

Talk of swollen fortunes! With the setting of every sun, the money-box of
the American Farmer bulges with the weight of twenty-four new millions.
Only the most athletic imagination can conceive of such a torrent of
wealth.

Place your finger on the pulse of your wrist and count the heart-beats;
one--two--three--four. With every four of those