Baker Farm

關燈
oCellinitellsusinhismemoirs,that,afteracertainterribledreamorvisionwhichhehadduringhisconfinementinthecastleofSt.Angelo,aresplendentlightappearedovertheshadowofhisheadatmorningandevening,whetherhewasinItalyorFrance,anditwasparticularlyconspicuouswhenthegrasswasmoistwithdew.ThiswasprobablythesamephenomenontowhichIhavereferred,whichisespeciallyobservedinthemorning,butalsoatothertimes,andevenbymoonlight.Thoughaconstantone,itisnotcommonlynoticed,and,inthecaseofanexcitableimaginationlikeCellini’s,itwouldbebasisenoughforsuperstition.Beside,hetellsusthatheshowedittoveryfew.Butaretheynotindeeddistinguishedwhoareconsciousthattheyareregardedatall? Isetoutoneafternoontogoa-fishingtoFair-Haven,throughthewoods,toekeoutmyscantyfareofvegetables.MywayledthroughPleasantMeadow,anadjunctoftheBakerFarm,thatretreatofwhichapoethassincesung,beginning,— “Thyentryisapleasantfield, Whichsomemossyfruittreesyield Partlytoaruddybrook, Byglidingmusquashundertook, Andmercurialtrout, Dartingabout.” IthoughtoflivingtherebeforeIwenttoWalden.I“hooked”theapples,leapedthebrook,andscaredthemusquashandthetrout.Itwasoneofthoseafternoonswhichseemindefinitelylongbeforeone,inwhichmanyeventsmayhappen,alargeportionofournaturallife,thoughitwasalreadyhalfspentwhenIstarted.Bythewaytherecameupashower,whichcompelledmetostandhalfanhourunderapine,pilingboughsovermyhead,andwearingmyhandkerchiefforashedandwhenatlengthIhadmadeonecastoverthepickerel-weed,standinguptomymiddleinwater,Ifoundmyselfsuddenlyintheshadowofacloud,andthethunderbegantorumblewithsuchemphasisthatIcoulddonomorethanlistentoit.Thegodsmustbeproud,thoughtI,withsuchforkedflashestoroutapoorunarmedfisherman.SoImadehasteforsheltertothenearesthut,whichstoodhalfamilefromanyroad,butsomuchthenearertothepond,andhadlongbeenuninhabited:— “Andhereapoetbuilded, Inthecompletedyears, Forbeholdatrivialcabin Thattodestructionsteers.” SotheMusefables.Buttherein,asIfound,dweltnowJohnField,anIrishman,andhiswife,andseveralchildren,fromthebroad-facedboywhoassistedhisfatherathiswork,andnowcamerunningbyhissidefromthebogtoescapetherain,tothewrinkled,sibyl-like,cone-headedinfantthatsatuponitsfather’skneeasinthepalacesofnobles,andlookedoutfromitshomeinthemidstofwetandhungerinquisitivelyuponthestranger,withtheprivilegeofinfancy,notkno