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Schreiner, Olive, 1855-1920

"The Story of an African Farm, a novel"

I only wished for a smooth piece of road, so that I
might sit at the front and doze. At the places where we outspanned there
were sometimes rare plants and flowers, the festoons hanging from the bush-
trees, and nuts and insects, such as we never see here; but after a little
while I never looked at them--I was too tired.
"I ate as much as I could, and then lay down on my face under the wagon
till the boy came to wake me to inspan, and then we drove on again all
night; so it went, so it went. I think sometimes when I walked by my oxen
I called to them in my sleep, for I know I thought of nothing; I was like
an animal. My body was strong and well to work, but my brain was dead. If
you have not felt it, Lyndall, you cannot understand it. You may work, and
work, and work, till you are only a body, not a soul. Now, when I see one
of those evil-looking men that come from Europe--navvies, with the beast-
like, sunken face, different from any Kaffer's--I know what brought that
look into their eyes; and if I have only one inch of tobacco I give them
half. It is work, grinding, mechanical work, that they or their ancestors
have done, that has made them into beasts. You may work a man's body so
that his soul dies. Work is good. I have worked at the old farm from the
sun's rising till its setting, but I have had time to think, and time to
feel.


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