§ 348 When Appearances Were Deceitful
The native was making a slow headway with a hoe against the weeds and sassafras sprouts which covered the slope with their scrubby growth. Behind him rose the knobby field with deep furrows in it where the rains had washed out gulleys in the thin soil. Further on a rotting rail fence ran in crazy zigzags across the brow of the eminence and on all sides the clearing was enveloped by a bleak and poverty-stricken landscape.
The Northern tourist, who was making a detour through the foothills, halted his car and hailed the industrious worker.
“My friend,” he said, “you look like a live chap and a hustler.”
“Well,” said the native, “I aim to keep busy.” He laid down his hoe and advanced to the edge of the road.
“That’s what I said to myself as soon as I saw you. I’m wondering why you’re content to slave your life out in this God-forsaken country. I never saw such poor-looking soil in my life. Why don’t you pull up stakes and move up into Ohio where I live?”
The resident hillsman shook his head.
“You see, stranger,” he answered, “I’ve always lived ’round here and I guess I’ll stay awhile longer.”
“Well,” said the tourist, “every man to his own fancy, and I guess a fellow might get attached even to such a spot as this. But what can you expect by staying on? You are bound to get poorer and poorer all the time.”
“Mister,” said the hillsman, “I’m a blamed sight better off than what you seem to think. Why, I don’t own nary acre of this here land.”