Baker Farm

Sometimes I rambled to pine groves, standing like temples, or like fleets at sea, full-rigged, with wavy boughs, and rippling with light, so soft and green and shady that the Druids would have forsaken their oaks to worship in them; or to the cedar wood beyond Flint’s Pond, where the trees, covered with hoary blue berries, spiring higher and higher, are fit to stand before Valhalla, and the creeping juniper covers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to swamps where the usnea lichen hangs in festoons from the white-spruce trees, and toad-stools, round tables of the swamp gods, cover the ground, and more beautiful fungi adorn the stumps, like butterflies or shells, vegetable winkles; where the swamp-pink and dogwood grow, the red alder-berry glows like eyes of imps, the waxwork grooves and crushes the hardest woods in its folds, and the wild-holly berries make the beholder forget his home with their beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless other wild forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste. Instead of calling on some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees, of kinds which are rare in this neighborhood, standing far away in the middle of some pasture, or in the depths of a wood or swamp, or on a hill-top; such as the black-birch, of which we have some handsome specimens two feet in diameter; its cousin, the yellow birch, with its loose golden vest, perfumed like the first; the beech, which has so neat a bole and beautifully lichen-painted, perfect in all its details, of which, excepting scattered specimens, I know but one small grove of sizable trees left in the township, supposed by some to have been planted by the pigeons that were once baited with beech nuts near by; it is worth the while to see the silver grain sparkle when you split this wood; the bass; the hornbeam; the Celtis occidentalis, or false elm, of which we have but one well-grown; some taller mast of a pine, a shingle tree, or a more perfect hemlock than usual, standing like a pagoda in the midst of the woods; and many others I could mention. These were the shrines I visited both summer and winter.

Sometimes I wandered into pine groves that stood like temples or fully rigged fleets at sea. Their branches waved and shimmered with light. The groves were so soft, green, and shady that the Druids would have abandoned their oaks to worship there. Or I visited the cedar wood beyond Flint’s Pond. Covered with pale blue berries, the trees rose in ever higher spires, fit to stand before Valhalla. Creeping juniper covered the ground with wreaths full of fruit. Or I went to swamps where usnea lichen hung in garlands from white-spruce trees. Toadstools, the round tables of the swamp gods, covered the ground. Still more beautiful fungi decorated the stumps like butterflies or shells, plantlike sea snails. Swamp-pink and dogwood grew there, and red alder berries glowed like the eyes of imps. Waxwork vines cut grooves into the hardest woods and crushed them in their coils. The beauty of wild-holly berries made anyone looking at them forget his home. Countless other wild, forbidden fruits dazzled and tempted him, too beautiful for mortals to taste. Instead of visiting some scholar, I often visited particular trees of kinds rare in this neighborhood. These trees stood far away, in the middle of pastures, deep in woods or swamps, or on hilltops. Among them was the black birch, of which we have some handsome specimens two feet across. Another was its cousin, the yellow birch, wearing a loose golden vest and fragrant like the black birch. Then there was the beech, with its neat trunk, beautifully painted with lichen and perfect in every detail. Apart from scattered specimens, I know of only one small grove of sizable beeches left in the township. Some suppose pigeons planted the grove, having once been lured with beech nuts nearby. It is worth seeing the silvery grain sparkle when you split beech wood. I also visited the basswood, the hornbeam, and the Celtis occidentalis, or false elm. We have only one well-grown false elm. Other trees drew me too: a taller pine like a ship’s mast, a shingle tree, or an unusually perfect hemlock. The hemlock stood like a pagoda in the middle of the woods. And there were many others I could mention. These were the shrines I visited in both summer and winter.

Once it chanced that I stood in the very abutment of a rainbow’s arch, which filled the lower stratum of the atmosphere, tinging the grass and leaves around, and dazzling me as if I looked through colored crystal. It was a lake of rainbow light, in which, for a short while, I lived like a dolphin. If it had lasted longer it might have tinged my employments and life. As I walked on the railroad causeway, I used to wonder at the halo of light around my shadow, and would fain fancy myself one of the elect. One who visited me declared that the shadows of some Irishmen before him had no halo about them, that it was only natives that were so distinguished. Benvenuto Cellini tells us in his memoirs, that, after a certain terrible dream or vision which he had during his confinement in the castle of St. Angelo, a resplendent light appeared over the shadow of his head at morning and evening, whether he was in Italy or France, and it was particularly conspicuous when the grass was moist with dew. This was probably the same phenomenon to which I have referred, which is especially observed in the morning, but also at other times, and even by moonlight. Though a constant one, it is not commonly noticed, and, in the case of an excitable imagination like Cellini’s, it would be basis enough for superstition. Beside, he tells us that he showed it to very few. But are they not indeed distinguished who are conscious that they are regarded at all?

Once I happened to stand at the very foot of a rainbow’s arch. The rainbow filled the lower air, coloring the grass and leaves around me. It dazzled me as if I were looking through colored crystal. It was a lake of rainbow light, and for a short time I lived in it like a dolphin. If the light had lasted longer, it might have colored my work and my life. As I walked along the raised railroad bed, I used to marvel at the halo of light around my shadow. I liked to imagine that I was one of the chosen. A visitor told me that some Irishmen ahead of him had no halos around their shadows. He claimed that only native-born people had that distinction. Benvenuto Cellini describes a similar experience in his memoirs. While imprisoned in the castle of St. Angelo, he had a certain terrible dream or vision. Afterward, a brilliant light appeared above the shadow of his head in the morning and evening. The light appeared whether he was in Italy or France, and was especially noticeable when the grass was wet with dew. This was probably the same effect I have described. It is especially visible in the morning, but also at other times, even by moonlight. Although the effect is always present, people rarely notice it. For someone with an imagination as excitable as Cellini’s, it would be enough to inspire superstition. Besides, he tells us that he showed the light to very few people. But aren't people truly distinguished when they are aware that they are noticed at all?

I set out one afternoon to go a-fishing to Fair-Haven, through the woods, to eke out my scanty fare of vegetables. My way led through Pleasant Meadow, an adjunct of the Baker Farm, that retreat of which a poet has since sung, beginning,—

One afternoon, I set out through the woods to fish at Fair-Haven, to supplement my meager diet of vegetables. My route took me through Pleasant Meadow, part of the Baker Farm. A poet has since written about that retreat, beginning:

I thought of living there before I went to Walden. I “hooked” the apples, leaped the brook, and scared the musquash and the trout. It was one of those afternoons which seem indefinitely long before one, in which many events may happen, a large portion of our natural life, though it was already half spent when I started. By the way there came up a shower, which compelled me to stand half an hour under a pine, piling boughs over my head, and wearing my handkerchief for a shed; and when at length I had made one cast over the pickerel-weed, standing up to my middle in water, I found myself suddenly in the shadow of a cloud, and the thunder began to rumble with such emphasis that I could do no more than listen to it. The gods must be proud, thought I, with such forked flashes to rout a poor unarmed fisherman. So I made haste for shelter to the nearest hut, which stood half a mile from any road, but so much the nearer to the pond, and had long been uninhabited:—

I thought of living there before I went to Walden. I “stole” the apples, jumped across the brook, and scared the muskrats and trout. It was one of those afternoons that seem to stretch endlessly ahead, with time for many things to happen. Such an afternoon feels like a large part of our natural lifespan, though it was already half over when I started. Along the way, a rain shower forced me to stand under a pine for half an hour. I piled branches over my head and used my handkerchief as a roof. At last, standing waist-deep in water, I made one cast over the pickerel-weed. Suddenly, I found myself in a cloud’s shadow. Thunder began to rumble so forcefully that I could do nothing but listen. The gods must be proud, I thought, driving off a poor, unarmed fisherman with such forked lightning. So I hurried for shelter to the nearest hut, which had long been empty. The hut stood half a mile from any road, but was that much closer to the pond:

So the Muse fables. But therein, as I found, dwelt now John Field, an Irishman, and his wife, and several children, from the broad-faced boy who assisted his father at his work, and now came running by his side from the bog to escape the rain, to the wrinkled, sibyl-like, cone-headed infant that sat upon its father’s knee as in the palaces of nobles, and looked out from its home in the midst of wet and hunger inquisitively upon the stranger, with the privilege of infancy, not knowing but it was the last of a noble line, and the hope and cynosure of the world, instead of John Field’s poor starveling brat. There we sat together under that part of the roof which leaked the least, while it showered and thundered without. I had sat there many times of old before the ship was built that floated his family to America. An honest, hard-working, but shiftless man plainly was John Field; and his wife, she too was brave to cook so many successive dinners in the recesses of that lofty stove; with round greasy face and bare breast, still thinking to improve her condition one day; with the never absent mop in one hand, and yet no effects of it visible anywhere. The chickens, which had also taken shelter here from the rain, stalked about the room like members of the family, too humanized methought to roast well. They stood and looked in my eye or pecked at my shoe significantly. Meanwhile my host told me his story, how hard he worked “bogging” for a neighboring farmer, turning up a meadow with a spade or bog hoe at the rate of ten dollars an acre and the use of the land with manure for one year, and his little broad-faced son worked cheerfully at his father’s side the while, not knowing how poor a bargain the latter had made. I tried to help him with my experience, telling him that he was one of my nearest neighbors, and that I too, who came a-fishing here, and looked like a loafer, was getting my living like himself; that I lived in a tight, light, and clean house, which hardly cost more than the annual rent of such a ruin as his commonly amounts to; and how, if he chose, he might in a month or two build himself a palace of his own; that I did not use tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor milk, nor fresh meat, and so did not have to work to get them; again, as I did not work hard, I did not have to eat hard, and it cost me but a trifle for my food; but as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter, and milk, and beef, he had to work hard to pay for them, and when he had worked hard he had to eat hard again to repair the waste of his system,—and so it was as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader than it was long, for he was discontented and wasted his life into the bargain; and yet he had rated it as a gain in coming to America, that here you could get tea, and coffee, and meat every day. But the only true America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the use of such things. For I purposely talked to him as if he were a philosopher, or desired to be one. I should be glad if all the meadows on the earth were left in a wild state, if that were the consequence of men’s beginning to redeem themselves. A man will not need to study history to find out what is best for his own culture. But alas! the culture of an Irishman is an enterprise to be undertaken with a sort of moral bog hoe. I told him, that as he worked so hard at bogging, he required thick boots and stout clothing, which yet were soon soiled and worn out, but I wore light shoes and thin clothing, which cost not half so much, though he might think that I was dressed like a gentleman, (which, however, was not the case,) and in an hour or two, without labor, but as a recreation, I could, if I wished, catch as many fish as I should want for two days, or earn enough money to support me a week. If he and his family would live simply, they might all go a-huckleberrying in the summer for their amusement. John heaved a sigh at this, and his wife stared with arms a-kimbo, and both appeared to be wondering if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or arithmetic enough to carry it through. It was sailing by dead reckoning to them, and they saw not clearly how to make their port so; therefore I suppose they still take life bravely, after their fashion, face to face, giving it tooth and nail, not having skill to split its massive columns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in detail;—thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should handle a thistle. But they fight at an overwhelming disadvantage,—living, John Field, alas! without arithmetic, and failing so.

So the Muse tells the story. But I found that John Field, an Irishman, now lived there with his wife and several children. The oldest was a broad-faced boy who helped his father work. He now came running beside his father from the bog to escape the rain. The youngest was a wrinkled, cone-headed infant who looked like an ancient prophetess. The baby sat on its father’s knee as though in a nobleman’s palace. From its home amid dampness and hunger, the baby gazed curiously at the stranger, with an infant’s freedom. For all the baby knew, it was the last of a noble line, the world’s hope and center of attention. Instead, it was John Field’s poor, half-starved brat. We sat together under the part of the roof that leaked least, while rain and thunder continued outside. I had often sat there long before the ship was built that brought his family to America. John Field was plainly an honest, hardworking man, but he lacked resourcefulness. His wife, too, was brave to cook so many dinners, one after another, deep inside that tall stove. With her round, greasy face and bare breast, she still hoped to improve her circumstances someday. She always held a mop in one hand, yet nowhere could I see any result of her mopping. The chickens had also sheltered inside from the rain. They strutted around the room like family members, too human, I thought, to roast well. They stood looking me in the eye or pecked at my shoe as though making a point. Meanwhile, my host told me his story. He worked hard at “bogging” for a neighboring farmer, digging up a meadow with a spade or bog hoe. He received ten dollars an acre, plus the use of the land and manure for one year. All the while, his little broad-faced son worked cheerfully beside him, unaware of his father’s poor bargain. I tried to help him by sharing my experience. I told him he was one of my nearest neighbors. Although I came here to fish and looked like an idler, I too earned my living, just as he did. My house was weatherproof, bright, and clean. Building it hardly cost more than a year’s usual rent for a ruin like his. If he chose, he could build himself a palace of his own in a month or two. I explained that I used no tea, coffee, butter, milk, or fresh meat, so I need not work for them. And because I did not work hard, I did not need to eat heavily. My food therefore cost very little. But he began by wanting tea, coffee, butter, milk, and beef, so he had to work hard to pay for them. After working hard, he had to eat heavily again to restore his strength. So he gained nothing. Indeed, he lost ground, because he was dissatisfied and wasted his life into the bargain. Yet he considered coming to America a gain because here you could have tea, coffee, and meat every day. But the only true America is a country where you are free to live without such things. There, the state does not try to force you to support slavery, war, and other unnecessary expenses. Those expenses result, directly or indirectly, from using such things. I deliberately spoke to him as though he were a philosopher, or wanted to become one. I would gladly see all the earth’s meadows left wild if that resulted from people beginning to reclaim their lives. A man need not study history to discover what is best for his own development. But alas! Cultivating an Irishman’s mind requires a kind of moral bog hoe. I told him that his hard work at bogging required thick boots and sturdy clothes. Yet his boots and clothes soon became dirty and wore out. I wore light shoes and thin clothes that cost less than half as much. He might think I dressed like a gentleman, though I did not. In an hour or two, I could, if I wished, catch enough fish for two days. Or I could earn enough money to support myself for a week. For me, this would be recreation, not labor. If he and his family lived simply, they could all go picking huckleberries for fun in summer. John sighed at this, and his wife stared with her hands on her hips. Both seemed to wonder whether they had enough money to begin living that way, or enough arithmetic to manage it. To them, living this way meant sailing by dead reckoning, estimating their course without a fixed point of reference. They could not clearly see how they would reach port that way. So I suppose they still face life bravely in their own fashion, fighting it face-to-face, tooth and nail. They lack the skill to drive a thin wedge into life’s massive columns and break them apart, piece by piece. Instead, they think they must handle life roughly, as one should handle a thistle. But they fight at an overwhelming disadvantage. Alas, John Field lives without arithmetic, and fails because of it.

“Do you ever fish?” I asked. “Oh yes, I catch a mess now and then when I am lying by; good perch I catch.” “What’s your bait?” “I catch shiners with fish-worms, and bait the perch with them.” “You’d better go now, John,” said his wife, with glistening and hopeful face; but John demurred.

“Do you ever fish?” I asked. “Oh yes, I catch a few fish now and then when I’m taking a break. I catch good perch.” “What’s your bait?” “I catch shiners with worms, and use the shiners as bait for perch.” “You’d better go now, John,” said his wife, her face shining with hope. But John hesitated.

The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised a fair evening; so I took my departure. When I had got without I asked for a drink, hoping to get a sight of the well bottom, to complete my survey of the premises; but there, alas! are shallows and quicksands, and rope broken withal, and bucket irrecoverable. Meanwhile the right culinary vessel was selected, water was seemingly distilled, and after consultation and long delay passed out to the thirsty one,—not yet suffered to cool, not yet to settle. Such gruel sustains life here, I thought; so, shutting my eyes, and excluding the motes by a skilfully directed under-current, I drank to genuine hospitality the heartiest draught I could. I am not squeamish in such cases when manners are concerned.

The shower had ended, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised a clear evening, so I left. Once outside, I asked for a drink, hoping to see the bottom of the well and finish inspecting the property. But alas, there were shallows and quicksand, a broken rope, and a bucket beyond recovery. Meanwhile, a suitable cooking pot was chosen, and the water was apparently distilled. After consultation and a long delay, the water was handed out to the thirsty visitor. The water had not yet been allowed to cool or settle. Such gruel sustains life here, I thought. So I closed my eyes and kept the floating specks out by carefully drawing the water from below. I drank as heartily as I could to genuine hospitality. I am not squeamish in such cases when good manners are at stake.

As I was leaving the Irishman’s roof after the rain, bending my steps again to the pond, my haste to catch pickerel, wading in retired meadows, in sloughs and bog-holes, in forlorn and savage places, appeared for an instant trivial to me who had been sent to school and college; but as I ran down the hill toward the reddening west, with the rainbow over my shoulder, and some faint tinkling sounds borne to my ear through the cleansed air, from I know not what quarter, my Good Genius seemed to say,—Go fish and hunt far and wide day by day,—farther and wider,—and rest thee by many brooks and hearth-sides without misgiving. Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home. There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played. Grow wild according to thy nature, like these sedges and brakes, which will never become English hay. Let the thunder rumble; what if it threaten ruin to farmers’ crops? that is not its errand to thee. Take shelter under the cloud, while they flee to carts and sheds. Let not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the land, but own it not. Through want of enterprise and faith men are where they are, buying and selling, and spending their lives like serfs.

After the rain, I left the Irishman’s shelter and headed back toward the pond. For a moment, my eagerness to catch pickerel seemed trivial for someone who had attended school and college. I was wading through secluded meadows, marshes, and bog holes, in desolate, wild places. But I ran down the hill toward the reddening west, with the rainbow over my shoulder. Faint tinkling sounds reached my ears through the freshly cleared air, from somewhere I could not identify. My Good Genius seemed to say: Go fishing and hunting far and wide every day, farther and wider still. Rest beside many streams and hearths without misgivings. Remember your Creator in your youth. Rise before dawn, free from worry, and seek adventures. Let noon find you beside other lakes, and feel at home wherever night finds you. There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than those you can play here. Grow wild according to your nature, like these sedges and ferns, which will never become English hay. Let the thunder rumble. What if the thunder threatens to ruin farmers’ crops? The thunder has no such purpose for you. Take shelter beneath the cloud while the farmers flee to their carts and sheds. Make earning a living your sport, not your trade. Enjoy the land, but do not own it. For lack of initiative and faith, people remain where they are, buying and selling, spending their lives like serfs.

O Baker Farm!

Oh, Baker Farm!

Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where their household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes its own breath over again; their shadows morning and evening reach farther than their daily steps. We should come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience and character.

Men come meekly home at night from only the next field or street, still haunted by echoes of home. Their lives waste away because they keep breathing the same air. Their morning and evening shadows stretch farther than their daily steps take them. We should come home from far away every day, from adventures, dangers, and discoveries, with new experience and character.

Before I had reached the pond some fresh impulse had brought out John Field, with altered mind, letting go “bogging” ere this sunset. But he, poor man, disturbed only a couple of fins while I was catching a fair string, and he said it was his luck; but when we changed seats in the boat luck changed seats too. Poor John Field!—I trust he does not read this, unless he will improve by it,—thinking to live by some derivative old country mode in this primitive new country,—to catch perch with shiners. It is good bait sometimes, I allow. With his horizon all his own, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish poverty or poor life, his Adam’s grandmother and boggy ways, not to rise in this world, he nor his posterity, till their wading webbed bog-trotting feet get talaria to their heels.

Before I reached the pond, some fresh impulse had brought John Field out, with his mind changed. He had given up “bogging” before sunset. But the poor man barely disturbed a couple of fins while I caught a good string of fish. He said his luck was to blame. But when we changed seats in the boat, luck changed seats too. Poor John Field! I trust he does not read this unless he will learn from it. He thought he could live by some secondhand old-country way in this unspoiled new country, catching perch with shiners. Shiners are good bait sometimes, I admit. His horizon was entirely his own, yet he was a poor man, born to be poor. He carried his inherited Irish poverty, his poor way of life, his Adam’s grandmother, and his boggy habits. Neither he nor his descendants would rise in this world until their webbed, wading, bog-trotting feet gained talaria, winged sandals, at their heels.