Uncle Sam Keeps Going
roads store and hear the boys talk? I mean the boys with whiskers, whittling on a dry-goods box? They are my kind of folks. I was born with them, reared with them. I know what kind of flapjacks his wife makes; know what kind of water he has in his well; I drink out of the same gourd, and know the name of his dog. I deny flatfootedly that there is any better American alive than the Iowa farmer, or the Virginia farmer, or the Texas farmer. I speak his language, I know what he is thinking about, and I wish I could talk to him face to face.
Most of them have got the same idea, not only the boys at the crossroads store, but business men, school teachers, lawyers. Just hang around and listen to what they say: “Look what we did to the British in the Revolution—a plenty.” “How Old Hickory cleaned ’em up at New Orleans.” “Over-ran Mexico before you could say scat.”
“Of course those foreign governments have big armies, but we have individual initiative.
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