The farmer has a way of
leaning over a gate. There are not many ways of leaning over a gate.
I have tried all I could think of, but it was never quite the right
way. It has to be in the blood. A farmer has a way of standing on
one leg and looking at a thing that isn't there. It sounds simple,
but there is knack in it. The farmer is not surprised it is not
there. He never expected it to be there. It is one of those things
that ought to be, and is not. The farmer's life is full of such.
Suffering reduced to a science is what the farmer stands for. All
his life he is the good man struggling against adversity. Nothing
his way comes right. This does not seem to be his planet.
Providence means well, but she does not understand farming. She is
doing her best, he supposes; that she is a born muddler is not her
fault. If Providence could only step down for a month or two and
take a few lessons in practical farming, things might be better; but
this being out of the question there is nothing more to be said.
From conversation with farmers one conjures up a picture of
Providence as a well-intentioned amateur, put into a position for
which she is utterly unsuited.
"Rain," says Providence, "they are wanting rain. What did I do with
that rain?"
She finds the rain and starts it, and is pleased with herself until
some Wandering Spirit pauses on his way and asks her sarcastically
what she thinks she's doing.
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