I try to pay in coin as
good as I get, but I recognize it as a lawless procedure, For the coin I
give (being such as I myself secretly make) is for them sometimes only
spurious metal, while what I get is for me the very treasure of the
Indies. For a lift in my wagon, a drink at the door, a flying word
across my fences, I have taken argosies of minted wealth!
Especially do I enjoy all travelling people. I wait for them (how
eagerly) here on my farm. I watch the world drift by in daily tides upon
the road, flowing outward in the morning toward the town, and as surely
at evening drifting back again. I look out with a pleasure impossible to
convey upon those who come this way from the town: the Syrian woman
going by in the gray town road, with her bright-coloured head-dress, and
her oil-cloth pack; and the Old-ironman with his dusty wagon, jangling
his little bells, and the cheerful weazened Herb-doctor in his faded
hat, and the Signman with his mouth full of nails--how they are all
marked upon by the town, all dusted with the rosy bloom of human
experience. How often in fancy I have pursued them down the valley and
watched them until they drifted out of sight beyond the hill! Or how
often I have stopped them or they (too willingly) have stopped me--and
we have fenced and parried with fine bold words.
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