They blaze on every mantel and run riot through all therooms. I present them to my friends in huge bunches， andstill the kind city folk come and gather more for me. “Sitdown for a moment，” I say to the departing guest. Andthere we sit in the shade of the porch while aspiring citycreatures pluck my poppies and sweat under the brazensun. And when their arms are sufficiently weighted withmy yellow glories， I go down with the rifle over my armand disburden them. Thus have I become convinced thatevery situation has its compensations.
Confiscation was successful， so far as it went； but I hadforgotten one thing； namely， the vast number of the cityfolk. Though the old transgressors came no more， newones arrived every day， and I found myself confrontedwith the titanic task of educating a whole cityful tothe inexpediency of raiding my poppy field. Duringthe process of disburdening them I was accustomed toexplaining my side of the case， but I soon gave this over. Itwas a waste of breath. They could not understand. To onelady， who insinuated that I was miserly， I said：
“My dear madam， no hardship is worked upon you. HadI not been parsimonious yesterday and the day before，these poppies would have been picked by the city hordesof that day and the day before， and your eyes， which todayhave discovered this field， would have beheld nopoppies at all. The poppies you may not pick to-day arethe poppies I did not permit to be picked yesterday andthe day before. Therefore， believe me， you are deniednothing.”
“But the poppies are here to-day，” she said， glaringcarnivorously upon their glow and splendour.
“I will pay you for them，” said a gentleman， at anothertime. （I had just relieved him of an armful.） I felt a suddenshame， I know not why， unless it be that his words had justmade clear to me that a monetary as well as an aestheticvalue was attached to my flowers. The apparent sordidnessof my position overwhelmed me， and I said weakly： “I donot sell my poppies. You may have what you have picked.”
But before the week was out I confronted the samegentleman again. “I will pay you for them，” he said. “Yes，”
I said， “you may pay me for them. Twenty dollars， please.”
He gasped， looked at me searchingly， gasped again， andsilently and sadly put the poppies down. But it remained，as usual， for a woman to attain the sheerest pitch ofaudacity. When I declined payment and demanded myplucked beauties， she refused to give them up. “I pickedthese poppies，” she said， “and my time is worth money.
When you have paid me for my time you may have them.”
Her cheeks flamed rebellion， and her face， withal a prettyone， was set and determined. Now， I was a man of the hilltribes， and she a mere woman of the city folk， and thoughit is not my inclination to enter into details， it is mypleasure to state that that bunch of poppies subsequentlyglorified the bungalow and that the woman departed tothe city unpaid. Anyway， they were my poppies.
“They are God’s poppies，” said the Radiant YoungRadical， democratically shocked at sight of me turningcity folk out of my field. And for two weeks she hated mewith a deathless hatred. I sought her out and explained.
I explained at length. I told the story of the poppy asMaeterlinck has told the life of the bee. I treated thequestion biologically， psychologically， and sociologically，I discussed it ethically and aesthetically. I grew warmover it， and impassioned； and when I had done， sheprofessed conversion， but in my heart of hearts I knew itto be compassion. I fled to other friends for consolation.
I retold the story of the poppy. They did not appearsupremely interested. I grew excited. They were surprisedand pained. They looked at me curiously. “It ill-befitsyour dignity to squabble over poppies，” they said. “It isunbecoming.”
I fled away to yet other friends. I sought vindication.
The thing had become vital， and I needs must put myselfright. I felt called upon to explain， though well knowingthat he who explains is lost. I told the story of the poppyover again. I went into the minutest details. I added to it，and expanded. I talked myself hoarse， and when I couldtalk no more they looked bored. Also， they said insipidthings， and soothful things， and things concerning otherthings， and not at all to the point. I was consumed withanger， and there and then I renounced them all.
At the bungalow I lie in wait for chance visitors. CraftilyI broach the subject， watching their faces closely the whileto detect first signs of disapprobation， whereupon I emptylong-stored vials of wrath upon their heads. I wranglefor hours with whosoever does not say I am right. I ambecome like Guy de Maupassant’s old man who pickedup a piece of string. I am incessantly explaining， andnobody will understand. I have become more brusque inmy treatment of the predatory city folk. No longer do Itake delight in their disburdenment， for it has become anonerous duty， a wearisome and distasteful task. My friendslook as kance and murmur pityingly on the side when wemeet in the city. They rarely come to see me now. Theyare afraid. I am an embittered and disappointed man， andall the light seems to have gone out of my life and into myblazing field. So one pays for things.
