Quotes about Rural

The tillage of the soil occupies the vast majority of those who work for their own bread.

Many people are just waking to the reality that unlimited expansion, what we call progress, is not possible in this world, and maybe looking to monks (who seek to live within limitations) as well as rural Dakotans (whose limitations are forced upon them by isolation and a harsh climate) can teach us how to live more realistically. These unlikely people might also help us overcome the pathological fear of death and the inability to deal with sickness and old age that plague American society.

And how sweet that would have been: the two of them back by the milk shed, squatting by the churn, smashing cold, lumpy butter into their faces with not a care in the world.

There is nothing good to be had in the country, or, if there be, they will not let you have it.

Anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.

The farmers may be the backbone of the country, but who wants to be a backbone?

As much as I converse with sages and heroes, they have very little of my love and admiration. I long for rural and domestic scene, for the warbling of birds and the prattling of my children.

All I really want is enough to live on, a little house in the country... and a tree in the garden with seven of my enemies hanging in it.

Prosperous farmers mean more employment, more prosperity for the workers and the business men of every industrial area in the whole country.

The dry knowledge of the three R's is not even now, it can never be, a permanent part of the villagers' life.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drows'd with the fume of poppies while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers.

There is a remnant still of last year's golden clusters of beehive-ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees; (..) Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its dark changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice