Because he had been a man of the road there was a peculiar feeling of understanding in the air. They were people of much natural refinement. I was the more grateful for their bread when I considered that when I came upon them at sunset they were working together in the field. There was not a hand to help. How could they be so happy and seem so blest? Their day was nearer sixteen than eight hours long. I felt deathly ashamed to eat their bread. I told them so, with emphasis. But the mother said, "We always takes in them that asks, and nobody never done us no harm yet." That night was a turning point with me. In reply to a certain question I said: "_Yes. I am going west harvesting._" I asked the veteran traveller to tell me the best place to harvest. He was sitting on the floor pulling the children's toes, and having a grand time. He drew himself up into a sort of oracular knot, with his chin on his knees, and gesticulated with his pipe. "Go straight west," he said, "to Great Bend, Barton County, Kansas, the banner wheat county of the United States. Arrive about July fifth. Walk to the public square. Walk two miles north. Look around. You will see nothing but wheat fields, and farmers standing on the edge of the road crying into big red handkerchiefs. Ask the first man for work. He will stop crying and give it to you. Wages will be two dollars and a half a day, and keep. You will have all you want to eat and a clean blanket in the hay." I have resolved to harvest at Great Bend. HEART OF GOD A PRAYER IN THE JUNGLES OF HEAVEN _O great Heart of God, Once vague and lost to me, Why do I throb with your throb to-night, In this land, Eternity? O little Heart of God, Sweet intruding stranger, You are laughing in my human breast, A Christ-child in a manger. Heart, dear Heart of God, Beside you now I kneel, Strong Heart of Faith. O Heart not mine, Where God has set His seal. Wild thundering Heart of God Out of my doubt I come, And my foolish feet with prophets' feet, March with the prophets' drum._ III _Walking into Kansas_ It has been raining quite a little. The roads are so muddy I have to walk the ties. Keeping company with the railroad is almost a habit. While this shower passes I write in the station at Stillwell, Kansas. JUNE 14, 1912. I have crossed the mystic border. I have left Earth. I have entered Wonderland. Though I am still east of the geographical centre of the United States, in every spiritual sense I am in the West. This morning I passed the stone mile-post that marks the beginning of Kansas.