At one time， years ago， these hills were carpeted withpoppies. As between the destructive forces and the will“to live，” the poppies maintained an equilibrium with theirenvironment. But the city folk constituted a new andterrible destructive force， the equilibrium was overthrown，and the poppies wellnigh perished. Since the city folkplucked those with the longest stems and biggest bowls，and since it is the law of kind to procreate kind， the longstemmed，big-bowled poppies failed to go to seed， and astunted， short-stemmed variety remained to the hills. Andnot only was it stunted and short-stemmed， but sparselydistributed as well. Each day and every day， for years andyears， the city folk swarmed over the Piedmont Hills， andonly here and there did the genius of the race survive inthe form of miserable little flowers， close-clinging andquick-blooming， like children of the slums dragged hastilyand precariously through youth to a shrivelled and futilematurity.
On the other hand， the poppies had prospered in myfield； and not only had they been sheltered from thebarbarians， but also from the birds. Long ago the fieldwas sown in wheat， which went to seed unharvested eachyear， and in the cool depths of which the poppy seedswere hidden from the keen-eyed songsters. And further，climbing after the sun through the wheat stalks， thepoppies grew taller and taller and more royal even thanthe primordial ones of the open.
So the city folk， gazing from the bare hills to my blazing，burning field， were sorely tempted， and， it must be told，as sorely fell. But no sorer was their fall than that of mybeloved poppies. Where the grain holds the dew and takesthe bite from the sun the soil is moist， and in such soil itis easier to pull the poppies out by the roots than to breakthe stalk. Now the city folk， like other folk， are inclinedto move along the line of least resistance， and for eachflower they gathered， there were also gathered many crisprolledbuds and with them all the possibilities and futurebeauties of the plant for all time to come.
One of the city folk， a middle-aged gentleman， with whitehands and shifty eyes， especially made life interesting forme. We called him the “Repeater，” what of his ways. Whenfrom the porch we implored him to desist， he was wontslowly and casually to direct his steps toward the fence，simulating finely the actions of a man who had not heard，but whose walk， instead， had terminated of itself or of hisown volition. To heighten this effect， now and again， stillcasually and carelessly， he would stoop and pluck anotherpoppy. Thus did he deceitfully save himself the indignityof being put out， and rob us of the satisfaction of puttinghim out， but he came， and he came often， each timegetting away with an able-bodied man’s share of plunder.
It is not good to be of the city folk. Of this I am convinced.
There is something in the mode of life that breeds analarming condition of blindness and deafness， or so itseems with the city folk that come to my poppy field. Ofthe many to whom I have talked ethically not one hasbeen found who ever saw the warnings so conspicuouslydisplayed， while of those called out to from the porch，possibly one in fifty has heard. Also， I have discoveredthat the relation of city folk to country flowers is quiteanalogous to that of a starving man to food. No more thanthe starving man realizes that five pounds of meat is notso good as an ounce， do they realize that five hundredpoppies crushed and bunched are less beautiful thantwo or three in a free cluster， where the green leaves andgolden bowls may expand to their full loveliness.
Less forgivable than the unaesthetic are the mercenary.
Hordes of young rascals plunder me and rob thefuture that they may stand on street corners and retail“California poppies， only five cents a bunch！” In spite ofmy precautions some of them made a dollar a day outof my field. One horde do I remember with keen regret.
Reconnoitring for a possible dog， they applied at thekitchen door for “a drink of water， please.” While theydrank they were besought not to pick any flowers. Theynodded， wiped their mouths， and proceeded to takethemselves off by the side of the bungalow. They smotethe poppy field beneath my windows， spread out fanshapedsix wide， picking with both hands， and ripped aswath of destruction through the very heart of the field.
No cyclone travelled faster or destroyed more completely.
I shouted after them， but they sped on the wings of thewind， great regal poppies， broken-stalked and mangled，trailing after them or cluttering their wake—the mosthigh-handed act of piracy， I am confident， ever committedoff the high seas.
One day I went a-fishing， and on that day a womanentered the field. Appeals and remonstrances from theporch having no effect upon her， Bess despatched a littlegirl to beg of her to pick no more poppies. The womancalmly went on picking. Then Bess herself went downthrough the heat of the day. But the woman went onpicking， and while she picked she discussed property andproprietary rights， denying Bess’s sovereignty until deedsand documents should be produced in proof thereof. Andall the time she went on picking， never once overlookingher hand. She was a large woman， belligerent of aspect，and Bess was only a woman and not prone to fisticuffs.
So the invader picked until she could pick no more， said“Good-day，” and sailed majestically away.
“People have really grown worse in the last several years，I think，” said Bess to me in a tired sort of voice that night，as we sat in the library after dinner.
Next day I was inclined to agree with her. “There’s awoman and a little girl heading straight for the poppies，”