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A
son
of
Alfred
Standing
fought
in
the
War
of
the
Revolution
;
a
grandson
,
in
the
War
of
1812
.
There
have
been
no
wars
since
in
which
the
Standings
have
not
been
represented
.
I
,
the
last
of
the
Standings
,
dying
soon
without
issue
,
fought
as
a
common
soldier
in
the
Philippines
,
in
our
latest
war
,
and
to
do
so
I
resigned
,
in
the
full
early
ripeness
of
career
,
my
professorship
in
the
University
of
Nebraska
.
Good
heavens
,
when
I
so
resigned
I
was
headed
for
the
Deanship
of
the
College
of
Agriculture
in
that
university
--
I
,
the
star-rover
,
the
red-blooded
adventurer
,
the
vagabondish
Cain
of
the
centuries
,
the
militant
priest
of
remotest
times
,
the
moon-dreaming
poet
of
ages
forgotten
and
to-day
unrecorded
in
man
's
history
of
man
!
And
here
I
am
,
my
hands
dyed
red
in
Murderers
'
Row
,
in
the
State
Prison
of
Folsom
,
awaiting
the
day
decreed
by
the
machinery
of
state
when
the
servants
of
the
state
will
lead
me
away
into
what
they
fondly
believe
is
the
dark
--
the
dark
they
fear
;
the
dark
that
gives
them
fearsome
and
superstitious
fancies
;
the
dark
that
drives
them
,
drivelling
and
yammering
,
to
the
altars
of
their
fear-created
,
anthropomorphic
gods
.
No
;
I
shall
never
be
Dean
of
any
college
of
agriculture
.
And
yet
I
knew
agriculture
.
It
was
my
profession
.
I
was
born
to
it
,
reared
to
it
,
trained
to
it
;
and
I
was
a
master
of
it
.
It
was
my
genius
.
I
can
pick
the
high-percentage
butter-fat
cow
with
my
eye
and
let
the
Babcock
Tester
prove
the
wisdom
of
my
eye
.
I
can
look
,
not
at
land
,
but
at
landscape
,
and
pronounce
the
virtues
and
the
shortcomings
of
the
soil
.
Litmus
paper
is
not
necessary
when
I
determine
a
soil
to
be
acid
or
alkali
.
I
repeat
,
farm-husbandry
,
in
its
highest
scientific
terms
,
was
my
genius
,
and
is
my
genius
.
And
yet
the
state
,
which
includes
all
the
citizens
of
the
state
,
believes
that
it
can
blot
out
this
wisdom
of
mine
in
the
final
dark
by
means
of
a
rope
about
my
neck
and
the
abruptive
jerk
of
gravitation
--
this
wisdom
of
mine
that
was
incubated
through
the
millenniums
,
and
that
was
well-hatched
ere
the
farmed
fields
of
Troy
were
ever
pastured
by
the
flocks
of
nomad
shepherds
!
Corn
?
Who
else
knows
corn
?
There
is
my
demonstration
at
Wistar
,
whereby
I
increased
the
annual
corn-yield
of
every
county
in
Iowa
by
half
a
million
dollars
.
This
is
history
.
Many
a
farmer
,
riding
in
his
motor-car
to-day
,
knows
who
made
possible
that
motor-car
.
Many
a
sweet-bosomed
girl
and
bright-browed
boy
,
poring
over
high-school
text-books
,
little
dreams
that
I
made
that
higher
education
possible
by
my
corn
demonstration
at
Wistar
And
farm
management
!
I
know
the
waste
of
superfluous
motion
without
studying
a
moving
picture
record
of
it
,
whether
it
be
farm
or
farm-hand
,
the
layout
of
buildings
or
the
layout
of
the
farm-hands
'
labour
.
There
is
my
handbook
and
tables
on
the
subject
.
Beyond
the
shadow
of
any
doubt
,
at
this
present
moment
,
a
hundred
thousand
farmers
are
knotting
their
brows
over
its
spread
pages
ere
they
tap
out
their
final
pipe
and
go
to
bed
.
And
yet
,
so
far
was
I
beyond
my
tables
,
that
all
I
needed
was
a
mere
look
at
a
man
to
know
his
predispositions
,
his
co-ordinations
,
and
the
index
fraction
of
his
motion-wastage
.
And
here
I
must
close
this
first
chapter
of
my
narrative
.
It
is
nine
o'clock
,
and
in
Murderers
'
Row
that
means
lights
out
.
Even
now
,
I
hear
the
soft
tread
of
the
gum-shoed
guard
as
he
comes
to
censure
me
for
my
coal-oil
lamp
still
burning
.
As
if
the
mere
living
could
censure
the
doomed
to
die
!
I
am
Darrell
Standing
.
They
are
going
to
take
me
out
and
hang
me
pretty
soon
.
In
the
meantime
I
say
my
say
,
and
write
in
these
pages
of
the
other
times
and
places
.
After
my
sentence
,
I
came
to
spend
the
rest
of
my
"
natural
life
"
in
the
prison
of
San
Quentin
.
I
proved
incorrigible
.
An
incorrigible
is
a
terrible
human
being
--
at
least
such
is
the
connotation
of
"
incorrigible
"
in
prison
psychology
.
I
became
an
incorrigible
because
I
abhorred
waste
motion
.
The
prison
,
like
all
prisons
,
was
a
scandal
and
an
affront
of
waste
motion
.
They
put
me
in
the
jute-mill
.
The
criminality
of
wastefulness
irritated
me
.
Why
should
it
not
?
Elimination
of
waste
motion
was
my
speciality
.
Before
the
invention
of
steam
or
steam-driven
looms
three
thousand
years
before
,
I
had
rotted
in
prison
in
old
Babylon
;
and
,
trust
me
,
I
speak
the
truth
when
I
say
that
in
that
ancient
day
we
prisoners
wove
more
efficiently
on
hand-looms
than
did
the
prisoners
in
the
steam-powered
loom-rooms
of
San
Quentin
.
The
crime
of
waste
was
abhorrent
.
I
rebelled
.
I
tried
to
show
the
guards
a
score
or
so
of
more
efficient
ways
.
I
was
reported
.
I
was
given
the
dungeon
and
the
starvation
of
light
and
food
.
I
emerged
and
tried
to
work
in
the
chaos
of
inefficiency
of
the
loom-rooms
.
I
rebelled
.
I
was
given
the
dungeon
,
plus
the
strait-jacket
.
