The Bean-Field

關燈
wasoutoftheirsightandthought.Itwastheonlyopenandcultivatedfieldforagreatdistanceoneithersideoftheroadsotheymadethemostofitandsometimesthemaninthefieldheardmoreoftravellers’gossipandcommentthanwasmeantforhisear:“Beanssolate!peassolate!”—forIcontinuedtoplantwhenothershadbeguntohoe,—theministerialhusbandmanhadnotsuspectedit.“Corn,myboy,forfoddercornforfodder.”“Doeshelivethere?”askstheblackbonnetofthegraycoatandthehard-featuredfarmerreinsuphisgratefuldobbintoinquirewhatyouaredoingwhereheseesnomanureinthefurrow,andrecommendsalittlechipdirt,oranylittlewastestuff,oritmaybeashesorplaster.Buthereweretwoacresandahalfoffurrows,andonlyahoeforcartandtwohandstodrawit,—therebeinganaversiontoothercartsandhorses,—andchipdirtfaraway.Fellow-travellersastheyrattledbycompareditaloudwiththefieldswhichtheyhadpassed,sothatIcametoknowhowIstoodintheagriculturalworld.ThiswasonefieldnotinMr.Coleman’sreport.And,bytheway,whoestimatesthevalueofthecropwhichnatureyieldsinthestillwilderfieldsunimprovedbyman?ThecropofEnglishhayiscarefullyweighed,themoisturecalculated,thesilicatesandthepotashbutinalldellsandpondholesinthewoodsandpasturesandswampsgrowsarichandvariouscroponlyunreapedbyman.Minewas,asitwere,theconnectinglinkbetweenwildandcultivatedfieldsassomestatesarecivilized,andothershalf-civilized,andotherssavageorbarbarous,somyfieldwas,thoughnotinabadsense,ahalf-cultivatedfield.TheywerebeanscheerfullyreturningtotheirwildandprimitivestatethatIcultivated,andmyhoeplayedtheRanzdesVachesforthem. Nearathand,uponthetopmostsprayofabirch,singsthebrown-thrasher—orredmavis,assomelovetocallhim—allthemorning,gladofyoursociety,thatwouldfindoutanotherfarmer’sfieldifyourswerenothere.Whileyouareplantingtheseed,hecries,—“Dropit,dropit,—coveritup,coveritup,—pullitup,pullitup,pullitup.”Butthiswasnotcorn,andsoitwassafefromsuchenemiesashe.Youmaywonderwhathisrigmarole,hisamateurPaganiniperformancesononestringorontwenty,havetodowithyourplanting,andyetpreferittoleachedashesorplaster.ItwasacheapsortoftopdressinginwhichIhadentirefaith. AsIdrewastillfreshersoilabouttherowswithmyhoe,Idisturbedtheashesofunchroniclednationswhoinprimevalyearslivedundertheseheavens,andtheirsmallimplementsofwarandhuntingwerebroughttothelightofthismodernday.Theylaymingledwithothernaturalstones,someofwhichborethemarksofhavingbeenburnedbyIndianfires,andsomebythesun,andalsobitsofpotteryandglassbroughthitherbytherecentcultivatorsofthesoil.Whenmyhoetinkledagainstthestones,thatmusicechoedtothewoodsandthesky,andwasanaccompanimenttomylaborwhichyieldedaninstantandimmeasurablecrop.ItwasnolongerbeansthatIhoed,norIthathoedbeansandIrememberedwithasmuchpityaspride,ifIrememberedatall,myacquaintanceswhohadgonetothecitytoattendtheoratorios.Thenight-hawkcircledoverheadinthesunnyafternoons—forIsometimesmadeadayofit—likeamoteintheeye,orinheaven’seye,fallingfromtimetotimewithaswoopandasoundasiftheheavenswererent,tornatlasttoveryragsandtatters,andyetaseamlesscoperemainedsmallimpsthatfilltheairandlaytheireggsonthegroundonbaresandorrocksonthetopsofhills,wherefewhavefoundthemgracefulandslenderlikeripplescaughtupfromthepond,asleavesareraisedbythewindtofloatintheheavenssuchkindredshipisinNature.Thehawkisaerialbrotherofthewavewhichhesailsoverandsurveys,thosehisperfectair-inflatedwingsansweringtotheelementalunfledgedpinionsofthesea.OrsometimesIwatchedapairofhen-hawkscirclinghighinthesky,alternatelysoaringanddescending,approaching,andleavingoneanother,asiftheyweretheembodimentofmyownthoughts.OrIwasattractedbythepassageofwildpigeonsfromthiswoodtothat,withaslightquiveringwinnowingsoundandcarrierhasteorfromunderarottenstumpmyh