We have disasters for breakfast; mined ships for luncheon; burned cities for dinner; trenches in our dreams, and bombarded towns for small talk.
Peaceful seems the sandy landscape where you are, glad the very blackjacks, happy the curs, blessed the sheep, interesting the chin-whiskered clodhopper, innocent the fool darkey, blessed the mule, for it knows no war.

And you have your mother--be happy, boy; you don't know how much you have to be thankful for.
Europe is ceasing to be interesting except as an example of how-not-to-do-it.

It has no lessons for us except as a warning.
When the whole continent has to go fighting--every blessed one of them--once a century, and half of them half the time between and all prepared even when they are not fighting, and when they shoot away all their money as soon as they begin to get rich a little and everybody else's money, too, and make the whole world poor, and when they kill every third or fourth generation of the best men and leave the worst to rear families, and have to start over afresh every time with a worse stock--give me Uncle Sam and his big farm.
We don't need to catch any of this European life.

We can do without it all as well as we can do without the judges' wigs and the court costumes.

Besides, I like a land where the potatoes have some flavour, where you can buy a cigar, and get your hair cut and have warm bathrooms.
Build the farm, therefore; and let me hear at every stage of that happy game.