And what sort of miserable life would you lead as a book writer? Instead of drinking the magnificent spring water of the West, you’d have to do with black ink, or chew on a goose feather instead of a bear paw or ham. There would be a cracked plaster ceiling above you, but no blue sky and instead of the soft, green grass you’d have an old wooden bed beneath you that causes lumbago. Here you have a horse, and there you’d have a tattered old armchair to sit on. Here you can enjoy God’s noble gift first hand with every rain and thunderstorm, but there you’d open a red or green umbrella over you as
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