The Bean Field

Meanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest had grown considerably before the latest were in the ground; indeed they were not easily to be put off. What was the meaning of this so steady and self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted. They attached me to the earth, and so I got strength like Antæus. But why should I raise them? Only Heaven knows. This was my curious labor all summer,—to make this portion of the earth’s surface, which had yielded only cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and the like, before, sweet wild fruits and pleasant flowers, produce instead this pulse. What shall I learn of beans or beans of me? I cherish them, I hoe them, early and late I have an eye to them; and this is my day’s work. It is a fine broad leaf to look on. My auxiliaries are the dews and rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself, which for the most part is lean and effete. My enemies are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks. The last have nibbled for me a quarter of an acre clean. But what right had I to oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient herb garden? Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new foes.

Meanwhile, my beans were impatient to be hoed. The rows I had already planted totaled seven miles. The earliest beans had grown considerably before the latest were in the ground, so they could hardly wait. I did not know the meaning of this steady, self-respecting work, this small Herculean labor. I came to love my rows, my beans, though I had so many more than I wanted. The beans tied me to the earth, and so I gained strength like Antæus. But why should I grow them? Only Heaven knows. This was my curious work all summer: making this patch of earth produce beans instead of its former plants. Before, the ground had yielded only cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and similar plants, sweet wild fruits and lovely flowers. What will I learn from beans, or beans from me? I care for them and hoe them. Early and late, I watch over them, and this is my day’s work. The bean plant has a beautiful, broad leaf to look at. My helpers are the dew and rain that water this dry soil, and whatever fertility the soil itself holds. For the most part, the soil is poor and worn out. My enemies are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks. The woodchucks have nibbled a quarter of an acre completely bare for me. But what right did I have to drive out johnswort and the other plants and dig up their ancient herb garden? Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough for the woodchucks and will go on to face new enemies.

When I was four years old, as I well remember, I was brought from Boston to this my native town, through these very woods and this field, to the pond. It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory. And now to-night my flute has waked the echoes over that very water. The pines still stand here older than I; or, if some have fallen, I have cooked my supper with their stumps, and a new growth is rising all around, preparing another aspect for new infant eyes. Almost the same johnswort springs from the same perennial root in this pasture, and even I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of my infant dreams, and one of the results of my presence and influence is seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines.

I clearly remember being brought from Boston to my hometown when I was four years old. We passed through these very woods and this field to the pond. It is one of the earliest scenes fixed in my memory. And now, tonight, my flute has awakened echoes over that very water. The pines still standing here are older than I am. Or, if some have fallen, I have used their stumps to cook my supper. New growth is rising all around, preparing a different scene for new babies’ eyes. Nearly the same St. John’s wort grows from the same perennial root in this pasture. And even I have finally helped to cover that magical landscape of my childhood dreams with plants. One result of my presence and influence can be seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines.

I planted about two acres and a half of upland; and as it was only about fifteen years since the land was cleared, and I myself had got out two or three cords of stumps, I did not give it any manure; but in the course of the summer it appeared by the arrowheads which I turned up in hoeing, that an extinct nation had anciently dwelt here and planted corn and beans ere white men came to clear the land, and so, to some extent, had exhausted the soil for this very crop.

I planted about two and a half acres of upland. The land had been cleared only about fifteen years earlier, and I had removed two or three cords of stumps myself. Because of this, I added no manure. But during the summer, I turned up arrowheads while hoeing. These showed that a nation no longer in existence had once lived here. They had planted corn and beans before white men came to clear the land. So they had, to some extent, already worn out the soil for this very crop.

Before yet any woodchuck or squirrel had run across the road, or the sun had got above the shrub oaks, while all the dew was on, though the farmers warned me against it,—I would advise you to do all your work if possible while the dew is on,—I began to level the ranks of haughty weeds in my bean-field and throw dust upon their heads. Early in the morning I worked barefooted, dabbling like a plastic artist in the dewy and crumbling sand, but later in the day the sun blistered my feet. There the sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing slowly backward and forward over that yellow gravelly upland, between the long green rows, fifteen rods, the one end terminating in a shrub oak copse where I could rest in the shade, the other in a blackberry field where the green berries deepened their tints by the time I had made another bout. Removing the weeds, putting fresh soil about the bean stems, and encouraging this weed which I had sown, making the yellow soil express its summer thought in bean leaves and blossoms rather than in wormwood and piper and millet grass, making the earth say beans instead of grass,—this was my daily work. As I had little aid from horses or cattle, or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry, I was much slower, and became much more intimate with my beans than usual. But labor of the hands, even when pursued to the verge of drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idleness. It has a constant and imperishable moral, and to the scholar it yields a classic result. A very agricola laboriosus was I to travellers bound westward through Lincoln and Wayland to nobody knows where; they sitting at their ease in gigs, with elbows on knees, and reins loosely hanging in festoons; I the home-staying, laborious native of the soil. But soon my homestead was out of their sight and thought. It was the only open and cultivated field for a great distance on either side of the road; so they made the most of it; and sometimes the man in the field heard more of travellers’ gossip and comment than was meant for his ear: “Beans so late! peas so late!”—for I continued to plant when others had begun to hoe,—the ministerial husbandman had not suspected it. “Corn, my boy, for fodder; corn for fodder.” “Does he live there?” asks the black bonnet of the gray coat; and the hard-featured farmer reins up his grateful dobbin to inquire what you are doing where he sees no manure in the furrow, and recommends a little chip dirt, or any little waste stuff, or it may be ashes or plaster. But here were two acres and a half of furrows, and only a hoe for cart and two hands to draw it,—there being an aversion to other carts and horses,—and chip dirt far away. Fellow-travellers as they rattled by compared it aloud with the fields which they had passed, so that I came to know how I stood in the agricultural world. This was one field not in Mr. Coleman’s report. And, by the way, who estimates the value of the crop which nature yields in the still wilder fields unimproved by man? The crop of English hay is carefully weighed, the moisture calculated, the silicates and the potash; but in all dells and pond holes in the woods and pastures and swamps grows a rich and various crop only unreaped by man. Mine was, as it were, the connecting link between wild and cultivated fields; as some states are civilized, and others half-civilized, and others savage or barbarous, so my field was, though not in a bad sense, a half-cultivated field. They were beans cheerfully returning to their wild and primitive state that I cultivated, and my hoe played the Ranz des Vaches for them.

Before any woodchuck or squirrel had crossed the road, or the sun had risen above the scrub oaks, I began work. The dew was still on everything, though the farmers had warned me against working then. I would advise you to do all your work, if possible, while the dew is still on. I began knocking down the ranks of proud weeds in my bean field and throwing dust on their heads. Early in the morning I worked barefoot, shaping the damp, crumbly sand like a sculptor. But later in the day, the sun blistered my feet. There the sun gave me light to hoe beans. I paced slowly back and forth across that yellow, gravelly upland, between long green rows measuring fifteen rods. One end reached a thicket of scrub oaks, where I could rest in the shade. The other reached a blackberry field. By the time I finished another pass, the green berries had deepened in color. I removed weeds, piled fresh soil around the bean stems, and encouraged this weed I had planted. I made the yellow soil express its summer thoughts in bean leaves and blossoms instead of wormwood, piper, and millet grass. Making the earth say beans instead of grass was my daily work. I had little help from horses, cattle, hired men or boys, or improved farming tools. So I worked much more slowly and became much more familiar with my beans than farmers usually do. But manual labor, even when pushed almost to drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idleness. Such labor teaches a lasting moral lesson, and gives the scholar a result worthy of the classics. To travelers heading west through Lincoln and Wayland to nobody knows where, I was a true agricola laboriosus, a hardworking farmer. They sat comfortably in light, two-wheeled carriages, elbows on knees, with the reins hanging in loose loops. I was the hardworking local, staying home and tending the soil. But soon my homestead was out of their sight and minds. My field was the only cleared and cultivated ground for a great distance on either side of the road. So the travelers made the most of the sight. Sometimes the man in the field heard more of their gossip and comments than they intended him to hear. “Beans so late! peas so late!” I kept planting after others had begun hoeing, a practice the preacher-farmer had not suspected. “Corn, my boy, for fodder, corn for fodder.” “Does he live there?” asks the woman in the black bonnet of the man in the gray coat. A hard-featured farmer stops his grateful old horse to ask what you are doing, seeing no manure in the furrow. He recommends a little soil mixed with rotted wood chips, or any scraps of waste material, or perhaps ashes or gypsum. But here were two and a half acres of furrows, with only a hoe for a cart. Two hands had to pull it, since I disliked other carts and horses, and the wood-chip soil was far away. As fellow travelers rattled past, they compared my field aloud with the fields they had already passed. So I learned where I stood in the farming world. Here was one field missing from Mr. Coleman’s report. And, by the way, who measures the value of nature’s harvest in still wilder fields, untouched by human improvements? The crop of English hay is carefully weighed, and its moisture, silicates, and potash are calculated. But every hollow and pond hole in the woods, pastures, and swamps grows a rich and varied crop. Humans simply do not harvest it. My field was, so to speak, the connecting link between wild and cultivated fields. Some states are civilized, others half-civilized, and others savage or barbarous. In the same way, though not in a bad sense, my field was half-cultivated. The beans I grew were cheerfully returning to their wild and primitive state. My hoe played the Ranz des Vaches, the herdsmen’s tune, for them.

Near at hand, upon the topmost spray of a birch, sings the brown-thrasher—or red mavis, as some love to call him—all the morning, glad of your society, that would find out another farmer’s field if yours were not here. While you are planting the seed, he cries,—“Drop it, drop it,—cover it up, cover it up,—pull it up, pull it up, pull it up.” But this was not corn, and so it was safe from such enemies as he. You may wonder what his rigmarole, his amateur Paganini performances on one string or on twenty, have to do with your planting, and yet prefer it to leached ashes or plaster. It was a cheap sort of top dressing in which I had entire faith.

Nearby, on the highest twig of a birch, the brown-thrasher sings all morning, glad of your company. Some like to call him the red mavis. He would find another farmer’s field if yours were not here. While you plant the seed, he cries, “Drop it, drop it, cover it up, cover it up, pull it up, pull it up, pull it up.” But this crop was not corn, so it was safe from enemies like him. You may wonder what his rambling song has to do with your planting. His amateur Paganini performances, on one string or twenty, may seem unrelated. Yet you may prefer his song to leached ashes or plaster spread as fertilizer. His song was a cheap sort of surface fertilizer, and I had complete faith in it.

As I drew a still fresher soil about the rows with my hoe, I disturbed the ashes of unchronicled nations who in primeval years lived under these heavens, and their small implements of war and hunting were brought to the light of this modern day. They lay mingled with other natural stones, some of which bore the marks of having been burned by Indian fires, and some by the sun, and also bits of pottery and glass brought hither by the recent cultivators of the soil. When my hoe tinkled against the stones, that music echoed to the woods and the sky, and was an accompaniment to my labor which yielded an instant and immeasurable crop. It was no longer beans that I hoed, nor I that hoed beans; and I remembered with as much pity as pride, if I remembered at all, my acquaintances who had gone to the city to attend the oratorios. The night-hawk circled overhead in the sunny afternoons—for I sometimes made a day of it—like a mote in the eye, or in heaven’s eye, falling from time to time with a swoop and a sound as if the heavens were rent, torn at last to very rags and tatters, and yet a seamless cope remained; small imps that fill the air and lay their eggs on the ground on bare sand or rocks on the tops of hills, where few have found them; graceful and slender like ripples caught up from the pond, as leaves are raised by the wind to float in the heavens; such kindredship is in Nature. The hawk is aerial brother of the wave which he sails over and surveys, those his perfect air-inflated wings answering to the elemental unfledged pinions of the sea. Or sometimes I watched a pair of hen-hawks circling high in the sky, alternately soaring and descending, approaching, and leaving one another, as if they were the embodiment of my own thoughts. Or I was attracted by the passage of wild pigeons from this wood to that, with a slight quivering winnowing sound and carrier haste; or from under a rotten stump my hoe turned up a sluggish portentous and outlandish spotted salamander, a trace of Egypt and the Nile, yet our contemporary. When I paused to lean on my hoe, these sounds and sights I heard and saw anywhere in the row, a part of the inexhaustible entertainment which the country offers.

As I hoed fresher soil around the rows, I disturbed the ashes of nations whose histories were never recorded. They had lived beneath these skies in ancient times. Their small tools for war and hunting came to light in this modern day. These tools lay mixed with other natural stones. Some stones bore marks of Native American fires, and some bore marks of the sun. There were also bits of pottery and glass brought here by people who had recently farmed the soil. When my hoe rang against the stones, the music echoed through the woods and sky. This music accompanied my work and yielded an immediate, immeasurable harvest. I was no longer hoeing beans, nor was I the one who hoed them. If I remembered them at all, I thought with as much pity as pride of my acquaintances attending oratorios in the city. The night-hawk circled overhead on sunny afternoons, for I sometimes spent the whole day hoeing. It was like a speck in my eye, or in heaven’s eye. From time to time, it swooped down with a sound as if the heavens were being ripped apart. The sky seemed torn at last to rags and tatters, yet its seamless cloak remained. These little imps fill the air and lay their eggs on the ground. They nest on bare sand or rocks on hilltops, where few people have found them. They are graceful and slender, like ripples lifted from the pond, as wind lifts leaves to float in the sky. Such is the kinship in Nature. The hawk is the airborne brother of the wave it sails over and surveys. Its perfectly formed, air-filled wings resemble the sea’s simple, featherless wings. Sometimes I watched a pair of hen-hawks circling high in the sky, taking turns soaring and descending. They approached and moved away from each other, as if they gave shape to my own thoughts. Or my attention turned to wild pigeons flying from one wood to another. They made a faint, trembling rush of wings and hurried like messengers. Or my hoe turned up a sluggish, ominous, strange-looking spotted salamander from beneath a rotten stump. The salamander seemed a trace of Egypt and the Nile, yet it lived in our own time. When I paused to lean on my hoe, I could hear and see these things anywhere along the row. These sights and sounds were part of the endless entertainment the countryside offers.

On gala days the town fires its great guns, which echo like popguns to these woods, and some waifs of martial music occasionally penetrate thus far. To me, away there in my bean-field at the other end of the town, the big guns sounded as if a puffball had burst; and when there was a military turnout of which I was ignorant, I have sometimes had a vague sense all the day of some sort of itching and disease in the horizon, as if some eruption would break out there soon, either scarlatina or canker-rash, until at length some more favorable puff of wind, making haste over the fields and up the Wayland road, brought me information of the “trainers.” It seemed by the distant hum as if somebody’s bees had swarmed, and that the neighbors, according to Virgil’s advice, by a faint tintinnabulum upon the most sonorous of their domestic utensils, were endeavoring to call them down into the hive again. And when the sound died quite away, and the hum had ceased, and the most favorable breezes told no tale, I knew that they had got the last drone of them all safely into the Middlesex hive, and that now their minds were bent on the honey with which it was smeared.

On festival days, the town fires its great cannons, whose echoes sound like popguns in these woods. A few stray sounds of military music occasionally reach this far. To me, far away in my bean field at the other end of town, the cannons sounded like a puffball bursting. Sometimes a military parade took place without my knowing about it. All day, I would vaguely sense some itching sickness on the horizon, as if a rash might soon break out. Perhaps it would be scarlet fever or canker-rash. At last, a more helpful gust hurried across the fields and up the Wayland road. The wind brought me news of the “trainers,” the men taking part in military drills. The distant hum sounded as if somebody’s bees had swarmed. As Virgil advised, the neighbors seemed to be trying to call the bees back into their hive. They made a faint jingling sound on the most resonant of their household utensils. Eventually, the sound died away completely, and the humming stopped. Even the most helpful breezes brought no news. Then I knew they had gotten every last drone safely into the Middlesex hive. Now their minds were fixed on the honey smeared inside.

I felt proud to know that the liberties of Massachusetts and of our fatherland were in such safe keeping; and as I turned to my hoeing again I was filled with an inexpressible confidence, and pursued my labor cheerfully with a calm trust in the future.

I felt proud to know that the freedoms of Massachusetts and our country were in such safe hands. As I returned to hoeing, I felt a confidence I could not put into words. I continued my work cheerfully, with a calm trust in the future.

When there were several bands of musicians, it sounded as if all the village was a vast bellows, and all the buildings expanded and collapsed alternately with a din. But sometimes it was a really noble and inspiring strain that reached these woods, and the trumpet that sings of fame, and I felt as if I could spit a Mexican with a good relish,—for why should we always stand for trifles?—and looked round for a woodchuck or a skunk to exercise my chivalry upon. These martial strains seemed as far away as Palestine, and reminded me of a march of crusaders in the horizon, with a slight tantivy and tremulous motion of the elm-tree tops which overhang the village. This was one of the great days; though the sky had from my clearing only the same everlastingly great look that it wears daily, and I saw no difference in it.

When several bands played, the whole village sounded like a giant bellows. All the buildings seemed to swell and shrink in turn with a great din. But sometimes a truly noble and inspiring tune reached these woods, with a trumpet singing of fame. I felt as if I could skewer a Mexican with real pleasure. For why should we always let trifles hold us back? I looked around for a woodchuck or a skunk to practice my chivalry on. These military tunes seemed as distant as Palestine. They reminded me of crusaders marching along the horizon, with a faint galloping sound. The elm treetops hanging over the village trembled slightly. This was one of the great days. Yet from my clearing, the sky had only the same endlessly grand appearance it has every day. I saw no difference in the sky.

It was a singular experience that long acquaintance which I cultivated with beans, what with planting, and hoeing, and harvesting, and threshing, and picking over and selling them,—the last was the hardest of all,—I might add eating, for I did taste. I was determined to know beans. When they were growing, I used to hoe from five o’clock in the morning till noon, and commonly spent the rest of the day about other affairs. Consider the intimate and curious acquaintance one makes with various kinds of weeds,—it will bear some iteration in the account, for there was no little iteration in the labor,—disturbing their delicate organizations so ruthlessly, and making such invidious distinctions with his hoe, levelling whole ranks of one species, and sedulously cultivating another. That’s Roman wormwood,—that’s pigweed,—that’s sorrel,—that’s piper-grass,—have at him, chop him up, turn his roots upward to the sun, don’t let him have a fibre in the shade, if you do he’ll turn himself t’other side up and be as green as a leek in two days. A long war, not with cranes, but with weeds, those Trojans who had sun and rain and dews on their side. Daily the beans saw me come to their rescue armed with a hoe, and thin the ranks of their enemies, filling up the trenches with weedy dead. Many a lusty crest-waving Hector, that towered a whole foot above his crowding comrades, fell before my weapon and rolled in the dust.

The long acquaintance I developed with beans was an unusual experience. I planted, hoed, harvested, threshed, sorted, and sold them. Selling was the hardest part of all. I might add eating, since I did taste them. I was determined to know beans. While the beans were growing, I would hoe from five in the morning until noon. I usually spent the rest of the day on other business. Consider the close and curious acquaintance you develop with various kinds of weeds. The account deserves some repetition, since the work involved plenty of repetition too. You ruthlessly disturb their delicate structures, making unfair distinctions with your hoe. You cut down whole ranks of one species while carefully tending another. That’s Roman wormwood, that’s pigweed, that’s sorrel, that’s piper-grass. Attack him, chop him up, turn his roots toward the sun. Don’t leave a single fiber in the shade. If you do, he’ll turn himself right side up and be as green as a leek in two days. It was a long war, not against cranes but against weeds. Those Trojans had sun, rain, and dew on their side. Every day, the beans saw me come to their rescue, armed with a hoe. I thinned the ranks of their enemies, filling the trenches with dead weeds. Many a mighty Hector, his crest waving, towered a full foot above his crowded comrades. He fell before my weapon and rolled in the dust.

Those summer days which some of my contemporaries devoted to the fine arts in Boston or Rome, and others to contemplation in India, and others to trade in London or New York, I thus, with the other farmers of New England, devoted to husbandry. Not that I wanted beans to eat, for I am by nature a Pythagorean, so far as beans are concerned, whether they mean porridge or voting, and exchanged them for rice; but, perchance, as some must work in fields if only for the sake of tropes and expression, to serve a parable-maker one day. It was on the whole a rare amusement, which, continued too long, might have become a dissipation. Though I gave them no manure, and did not hoe them all once, I hoed them unusually well as far as I went, and was paid for it in the end, “there being in truth,” as Evelyn says, “no compost or lætation whatsoever comparable to this continual motion, repastination, and turning of the mould with the spade.” “The earth,” he adds elsewhere, “especially if fresh, has a certain magnetism in it, by which it attracts the salt, power, or virtue (call it either) which gives it life, and is the logic of all the labor and stir we keep about it, to sustain us; all dungings and other sordid temperings being but the vicars succedaneous to this improvement.” Moreover, this being one of those “worn-out and exhausted lay fields which enjoy their sabbath,” had perchance, as Sir Kenelm Digby thinks likely, attracted “vital spirits” from the air. I harvested twelve bushels of beans.

Some of my contemporaries spent those summer days pursuing the fine arts in Boston or Rome. Others spent them in contemplation in India, and still others in trade in London or New York. I spent them farming, along with the other farmers of New England. Not that I wanted beans to eat. By nature, I am a Pythagorean when it comes to beans, whether used for porridge or voting. I exchanged my beans for rice. But perhaps some must work in the fields, if only to supply metaphors and expressions for a future storyteller’s parables. On the whole, farming was an unusual pleasure, though too much of it might have become an indulgence. Though I used no manure and did not hoe all the beans even once, I hoed unusually well wherever I worked. In the end, my work paid off. As Evelyn says, “In truth, no compost or fertilizer can compare with continually working, digging, and turning the soil with a spade.” Elsewhere he adds, “The earth, especially fresh earth, has a certain magnetism. It attracts the salt, power, or virtue (call it what you will) that gives it life. This attraction explains all our labor and activity in working the earth to sustain us. All applications of manure and other filthy mixtures are merely substitutes for this improvement.” Moreover, my field was one of those “worn-out and exhausted fields left to rest and enjoy their sabbath.” Perhaps, as Sir Kenelm Digby thinks likely, the field had attracted “vital spirits” from the air. I harvested twelve bushels of beans.

But to be more particular, for it is complained that Mr. Coleman has reported chiefly the expensive experiments of gentlemen farmers, my outgoes were,—

But let me be more specific. Some complain that Mr. Coleman has mainly reported on the expensive experiments of wealthy gentlemen who farm. My expenses were as follows:

My income was (patrem familias vendacem, non emacem esse oportet), from

My income came (the head of a household should sell, not buy) from

This is the result of my experience in raising beans. Plant the common small white bush bean about the first of June, in rows three feet by eighteen inches apart, being careful to select fresh round and unmixed seed. First look out for worms, and supply vacancies by planting anew. Then look out for woodchucks, if it is an exposed place, for they will nibble off the earliest tender leaves almost clean as they go; and again, when the young tendrils make their appearance, they have notice of it, and will shear them off with both buds and young pods, sitting erect like a squirrel. But above all harvest as early as possible, if you would escape frosts and have a fair and salable crop; you may save much loss by this means.

Here is what I learned from growing beans. Plant the common small white bush bean around the first of June. Space the rows three feet apart and the plants eighteen inches apart. Be sure to choose fresh, round seeds, not mixed with other varieties. First, watch for worms, and plant again wherever beans fail to grow. Then watch for woodchucks if the plot is exposed. They will nibble away nearly all the first tender leaves as they go. When the young tendrils appear, the woodchucks notice again. Sitting upright like squirrels, they will clip off the tendrils along with the buds and young pods. But above all, harvest as early as possible if you want to avoid frost and get a good, marketable crop. You may prevent much loss this way.

This further experience also I gained. I said to myself, I will not plant beans and corn with so much industry another summer, but such seeds, if the seed is not lost, as sincerity, truth, simplicity, faith, innocence, and the like, and see if they will not grow in this soil, even with less toil and manurance, and sustain me, for surely it has not been exhausted for these crops. Alas! I said this to myself; but now another summer is gone, and another, and another, and I am obliged to say to you, Reader, that the seeds which I planted, if indeed they were the seeds of those virtues, were wormeaten or had lost their vitality, and so did not come up. Commonly men will only be brave as their fathers were brave, or timid. This generation is very sure to plant corn and beans each new year precisely as the Indians did centuries ago and taught the first settlers to do, as if there were a fate in it. I saw an old man the other day, to my astonishment, making the holes with a hoe for the seventieth time at least, and not for himself to lie down in! But why should not the New Englander try new adventures, and not lay so much stress on his grain, his potato and grass crop, and his orchards,—raise other crops than these? Why concern ourselves so much about our beans for seed, and not be concerned at all about a new generation of men? We should really be fed and cheered if when we met a man we were sure to see that some of the qualities which I have named, which we all prize more than those other productions, but which are for the most part broadcast and floating in the air, had taken root and grown in him. Here comes such a subtile and ineffable quality, for instance, as truth or justice, though the slightest amount or new variety of it, along the road. Our ambassadors should be instructed to send home such seeds as these, and Congress help to distribute them over all the land. We should never stand upon ceremony with sincerity. We should never cheat and insult and banish one another by our meanness, if there were present the kernel of worth and friendliness. We should not meet thus in haste. Most men I do not meet at all, for they seem not to have time; they are busy about their beans. We would not deal with a man thus plodding ever, leaning on a hoe or a spade as a staff between his work, not as a mushroom, but partially risen out of the earth, something more than erect, like swallows alighted and walking on the ground:—

I learned this lesson too. I said to myself, next summer I will not work so hard at planting beans and corn. Instead, I will plant seeds of sincerity, truth, simplicity, faith, innocence, and similar virtues, if those seeds still exist. I will see whether they grow in this soil, even with less work and manure, and sustain me. Surely the soil has not been exhausted by growing these crops. Alas, I said this to myself. But now another summer has passed, and another, and another. I must tell you, Reader, that the seeds I planted were worm-eaten or had lost their life. That is, if they really were the seeds of those virtues. So they did not sprout. Usually, men will only be brave in the ways their fathers were brave, or timid as their fathers were. This generation is sure to plant corn and beans each year exactly as the Indians did centuries ago. The Indians taught the first settlers to plant this way, and we follow as if fate required it. The other day, to my astonishment, I saw an old man making holes with a hoe for at least the seventieth year. And the holes were not for him to lie down in! But why shouldn't the New Englander try new adventures? Why put so much importance on his grain, potatoes, hay, and orchards, instead of raising other crops? Why worry so much about saving beans for seed, and not at all about a new generation of men? We would truly be nourished and cheered if we could count on finding those virtues in every man we met. We all value these qualities more than the crops we grow. Yet these virtues mostly remain scattered about, floating in the air, rather than taking root and growing in people. Here comes truth or justice along the road, for instance, a quality so subtle that words cannot express it. Even the smallest amount, or a new variety, would be welcome. Our ambassadors should be told to send home seeds like these, and Congress should help distribute them throughout the land. We should never let ceremony stand between us and sincerity. We should never cheat, insult, and drive one another away through our pettiness, if a core of worth and friendliness were present. We should not meet one another in such a hurry. Most men I never really meet, because they seem to have no time. They are busy with their beans. We would not treat a man this way if he were always trudging along, leaning between tasks on a hoe or spade like a walking stick. He would not be like a mushroom, but only partly risen from the earth. He would be something more than upright, like swallows that have landed and are walking on the ground:

so that we should suspect that we might be conversing with an angel. Bread may not always nourish us; but it always does us good, it even takes stiffness out of our joints, and makes us supple and buoyant, when we knew not what ailed us, to recognize any generosity in man or Nature, to share any unmixed and heroic joy.

so that we might suspect we were talking with an angel. Bread may not always nourish us. But recognizing any generosity in people or Nature, or sharing any pure and heroic joy, always does us good. Such experiences even ease the stiffness in our joints and make us feel flexible and light. They do this even when we did not know what was troubling us.

Ancient poetry and mythology suggest, at least, that husbandry was once a sacred art; but it is pursued with irreverent haste and heedlessness by us, our object being to have large farms and large crops merely. We have no festival, nor procession, nor ceremony, not excepting our Cattle-shows and so called Thanksgivings, by which the farmer expresses a sense of the sacredness of his calling, or is reminded of its sacred origin. It is the premium and the feast which tempt him. He sacrifices not to Ceres and the Terrestrial Jove, but to the infernal Plutus rather. By avarice and selfishness, and a grovelling habit, from which none of us is free, of regarding the soil as property, or the means of acquiring property chiefly, the landscape is deformed, husbandry is degraded with us, and the farmer leads the meanest of lives. He knows Nature but as a robber. Cato says that the profits of agriculture are particularly pious or just, (maximeque pius quæstus), and according to Varro the old Romans “called the same earth Mother and Ceres, and thought that they who cultivated it led a pious and useful life, and that they alone were left of the race of King Saturn.”

Ancient poetry and mythology at least suggest that farming was once a sacred art. But we practice farming with disrespectful haste and carelessness, aiming only for large farms and large harvests. We have no festival, procession, or ceremony through which farmers express the sacredness of their calling or remember its sacred origins. Even our Cattle-shows and so-called Thanksgivings fail to serve this purpose. The prize money and the feast are what attract the farmer. He sacrifices not to Ceres and the Terrestrial Jove, but rather to the underworld god Plutus. Through greed and selfishness, we disfigure the landscape and degrade farming, and the farmer leads the lowest of lives. These harms also come from a base habit none of us escapes: seeing soil chiefly as property or a way to acquire property. The farmer knows Nature only as a robber knows his victim. Cato says that the profits of farming are especially righteous or just, (maximeque pius quæstus). According to Varro, the old Romans “called the same earth Mother and Ceres. They believed that those who cultivated the earth led a righteous and useful life. They also believed that these farmers alone remained of the race of King Saturn.”

We are wont to forget that the sun looks on our cultivated fields and on the prairies and forests without distinction. They all reflect and absorb his rays alike, and the former make but a small part of the glorious picture which he beholds in his daily course. In his view the earth is all equally cultivated like a garden. Therefore we should receive the benefit of his light and heat with a corresponding trust and magnanimity. What though I value the seed of these beans, and harvest that in the fall of the year? This broad field which I have looked at so long looks not to me as the principal cultivator, but away from me to influences more genial to it, which water and make it green. These beans have results which are not harvested by me. Do they not grow for woodchucks partly? The ear of wheat (in Latin spica, obsoletely speca, from spe, hope) should not be the only hope of the husbandman; its kernel or grain (granum from gerendo, bearing) is not all that it bears. How, then, can our harvest fail? Shall I not rejoice also at the abundance of the weeds whose seeds are the granary of the birds? It matters little comparatively whether the fields fill the farmer’s barns. The true husbandman will cease from anxiety, as the squirrels manifest no concern whether the woods will bear chestnuts this year or not, and finish his labor with every day, relinquishing all claim to the produce of his fields, and sacrificing in his mind not only his first but his last fruits also.

We often forget that the sun looks equally on our cultivated fields, prairies, and forests. All reflect and absorb his rays alike. Cultivated fields form only a small part of the glorious scene he sees on his daily journey. In his eyes, the whole earth is equally cultivated, like a garden. So we should accept his light and warmth with equal trust and generosity of spirit. What does it matter that I value these beans’ seeds and harvest them in the fall? This broad field, which I have watched so long, does not look to me as its chief cultivator. Instead, the field looks beyond me to more nurturing forces that water it and make it green. These beans produce benefits I do not harvest. Don’t they grow partly for woodchucks? The ear of wheat should not be the farmer’s only hope. Its Latin name is spica, formerly speca, from spe, meaning hope. Its kernel or grain is not all it bears. The Latin word for grain is granum, from gerendo, meaning bearing. How, then, can our harvest fail? Shouldn’t I also rejoice in the abundance of weeds, whose seeds are the birds’ grain store? Whether the fields fill the farmer’s barns matters comparatively little. The true farmer will stop worrying, just as squirrels show no concern about whether the woods will bear chestnuts this year. He will finish his work each day and let go of every claim to his fields’ produce. In his mind, he will sacrifice not only his first fruits but his last fruits too.