There Are Degrees And Kinds Of Solitude.

There Are Two Spiritual Dangers In Not Owning A Farm. One Is The Danger Of Supposing That Breakfast Comes From The Grocery, And The Other That Heat Comes From The Furnace.

My Dog Does Not Care Where Heat Comes From, But He Cares That It Comes, And Soon. Indeed He Considers My Ability To Make It Come As Something Magical, For When I Rise In The Coal Black Pre-dawn And Kneel By The Hearth To Make A Fire, He Pushes Himself Blandly Between Me And The Kindling Splits I Have Laid In The Ashes, And I Must Touch A Match To Them By Poking It Between His Legs. Such Faith , I Suppose, Is The Kind That Moves Mountains.

The Landscape Of Any Farm Is The Owner's Portrait Of Himself.

How Would You Like To Have A Thousand Brilliantly Colored Cliff Swallows Keeping House In The Eaves Of Your Barn, And Gobbling Up Insects Over Your Farm At The Rate Of 100,000 Per Day? There Are Many Wisconsin Farmsteads Where Such A Swallow-show Is A Distinct Possibility.

Only Economists Mistake Physical Opulence For Riches.