“Mr. Sam,” began the farmer. “I brought you some ears. I read what you said about wanting us American farmers to grow four billion bushels of corn a year instead of three billion bushels, so as to feed everybody at home and abroad, so as to get some beefsteak to put on the peace table, so as to stop inflation. This is my son, Cledith Raugh, Mr. Guard. I’m his 4-H leader at Burgin, Kentucky, way up in the mountains. I’m the school teacher up yonder, too. Cledith raised this corn on a measured acre and we thought you’d like to have some to decorate your office.” With that, he opened the cheap suitcase and displayed the gleaming yellow corn. Was I tickled.
“How many bushels did, ah, Cledith raise on that measured acre,” I asked too casually. “I had 24,696