Wealth for toil

Second World War Australian poster depicting me wheat harvesting. The text reads:

Wealth for Toil...

This is the end of a story that began with Autumn, when the deep
plough probed the yellow-stubbed paddocks and left them upturned and
brown. There was the big eight-horse "combine", with long curved
fingers, that tucked the seed down, snug in the drills. And after
that, there was sun and rain and dew.

When the wheat was tall and yellow it rippled and whispered in the
wind and the brown quail built their nests in the crop,
while the ears grew fat and gold. Then we harvested. And
while the binder swept through the wheat in wide brown swathes and
tossed out the sheaves for stooking, we would feel something that's
hard to put down on paper. Perhaps we were thinking that, in a world
twisted with hate and distrust and fake, here was something basic and
right. The year's work, hand in hand with nature; the golden reward
at the end.

We in Australia have nine-tenths of happiness, so long as our
inherited way of life remains. So long as we have the simple but
all-important freedom to work and plan and grow.