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1John Farmer sat at his door one September evening, after a hard day's work, his mind still running on his labor more or
2less. Having bathed, he sat down to re-create his intellectual man. It was a rather cool evening, and some of his
3neighbors were apprehending a frost. He had not attended to the train of his thoughts long when he heard some one
4playing on a flute, and that sound harmonized with his mood. Still he thought of his work; but the burden of his thought
5was, that though this kept running in his head, and he found himself planning and contriving it against his will, yet it
6concerned him very little. It was no more than the scurf of his skin, which was constantly shuffled off. But the notes
7of the flute came home to his ears out of a different sphere from that he worked in, and suggested work for certain
8faculties which slumbered in him. They gently did away with the street, and the village, and the state in which he
9lived. A voice said to him,--Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existence is possible
10for you? Those same stars twinkle over other fields than these.--But how to come out of this condition and actually
11migrate thither? All that he could think of was to practise some new austerity, to let his mind descend into his body
12and redeem it, and treat himself with ever increasing respect.
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