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Rural Labor-Its Endowment
By Prof. Lowry Nelson

Up to the tasks of the world marches the endless procession of Labor. With its matchless strength and magic touch this giant army manipulates the wheels of industry, pumps trade through the arteries of commerce, turns the yielding sod, and annually shears the earth of its golden fleece. Work moves the universe. Labor is the heart of human institutions. Inspired labor is the summum bonum; the greatest good in the world.

Some labor; some drudge. Some meet and do their tasks in the light of inspiration, intelligence and faith; some moil in the dusk of uncertainty, and uninspired necessity. The labor of some is animated by imagination, the beauties of Nature, the joy of living, and hope of the future; that of others is animated by nothing. The laborer is supreme in the consciousness of his own power, and his faith in what the future holds; the drudge is a victim of the monotony of his toil.

Across the river, nestling close to the western foothills, is a homestead. The house, the barn, the yards, bear the unmistakable signs of poverty. It is early spring after a hard winter. Two aenemic cows are reaching at the scanty supply of straw on the low shed that is trying to protect them from the incessant wind. A hungry looking dog rushes from the sunny side of the house to greet you. He indicates that visitors are rare. You approach the one-room house built of logs, and rap on the ill-hung door. After some moments a woman with a child in arms fearfully opens the door. Beyond her sitting by the stove, is a man, his head surrounded by fumes of smoke. He is sitting, elbows on knees, looking into the open oven. He looks around as you enter, and speaks but does not rise. A girl of eight and a boy of six, each like the parents, clothed in rags, are sitting on the floor playing. You comment upon the disagreeableness of the wind, and the uncertainty of the times, which strikes a responsive note immediately. The man slowly assumes an erect posture, takes two or three puffs on his pipe, and then there is a monologue something like this:

"I never saw such a God-forsaken country. Blow, blow, blow. It's blowed steady for ten days now without even stopping to get a fresh start. I hitched up and started down the country the other day, but I only got down the road about a half mile when it blowed so hard and there was so much sand a-flying that I couldn't get the hosses to go any further, so I turned back. Got to get a little something to eat purty quick, too. Guess I'll try again tomorrow. Can't sell nothin', can't raise nothin'." "Why not?" you ask. "Too much wind, and laziness I suppose, to be honest," he admits.