I do not think, indeed, I ever had the portrait of a pig drawn for me with quite such ardent enthusiasm of detail, and the more questions I asked the more eager the story, until finally it became necessary for me to go to the barn, the cattle-pen, the pig-pen and the chicken-house, that I might visualize more clearly the scene of the tragedy.

The whole family trooped after us like a classic chorus, but Mr.Clark himself kept the centre of the stage.
How plainly I could read upon the face of the land the story of this hill farmer and his meagre existence--his ill-directed effort to wring a poor living for his family from these upland fields, his poverty, and, above all, his evident lack of knowledge of his own calling.

Added to these things, and perhaps the most depressing of all his difficulties, was the utter loneliness of the task, the feeling that it mattered little to any one whether the Clark family worked or not, or indeed whether they lived or died.

A perfectly good American family was here being wasted, with the precious land they lived on, because no one had taken the trouble to make them feel that they were a part of this Great American Job.
As we went back to the house, a freckled-nosed neighbour's boy came in at the gate.
"A letter for you, Mr.Clark," said he.

"I brought it up with our mail." "A letter!" exclaimed Mrs.Clark.
"A letter!" echoed at least three of the children in unison.
"Probably a dun from Brewster," said Mr.Clark discouragingly.
I felt a curious sensation about the heart, and an eagerness of interest I have rarely experienced.