Young Farmers

I'd spent so many summers on my uncle's farm and loved to feel the roots of rightful, old tradition. Our day began when Mr. Sandman passed and the alarm was getting ready to convey programmed decision to him, my rival brother and myself at 1/2 past three. We did the chores involving the menagerie of cows and pigs and horses, chickens, geese. Who all had spent the night to manufacture and then drop their multicoloured excrements up to their knees. We laboured, mucking with enthusiasm and non-stop. Sucking the morning's freshest, slightly soiled warm egg before the real breakfast of much hearty nature beckoned, fresh cream drawn from the silver separator keg and ham and sausages, fatback, we always reckoned, that, if the Life of Reilly needed new inventing it would be found with ease on our favourite farm. And. come to think of it, bet anyone, the devil, on repenting his evil life, would gladly, happily fall for the charm of country life in nineteenfifty, when the world was good, when greed had stayed in castles and in Roman spires, when man was kind to man and knew he would be well and happy, healthy, free to sire enduring decency in future generations. And those, my friend, those were the days, when basic goodness never rested on sensations of goods and services and prostituting yeahs and nays.