"Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with
the earth."
This is a well earned Sunday morning. My chores were all done long ago,
and I am sitting down here after a late and leisurely breakfast with
that luxurious feeling of irresponsible restfulness and comfort which
comes only upon a clean, still Sunday morning like this--after a week of
hard work--a clean Sunday morning, with clean clothes, and a clean chin,
and clean thoughts, and the June airs stirring the clean white curtains
at my windows. From across the hills I can hear very faintly the drowsy
sounds of early church bells, never indeed to be heard here except on a
morning of surpassing tranquillity. And in the barnyard back of the
house Harriet's hens are cackling triumphantly: they are impiously
unobservant of the Sabbath day.
I turned out my mare for a run in the pasture. She has rolled herself
again and again in the warm earth and shaken herself after each roll
with an equine delight most pleasant to see. Now, from time to time, I
can hear her gossipy whickerings as she calls across the fields to my
neighbour Horace's young bay colts.
When I first woke up this morning I said to myself:
"Well, nothing happened yesterday."
Then I lay quiet for some time--it being Sunday morning--and I turned
over in my mind all that I had heard or seen or felt or thought about in
that one day. And presently I said aloud to myself:
"Why, nearly everything happened yesterday."
And the more I thought of it the more interesting, the more wonderful,
the more explanatory of high things, appeared the common doings of that
June Saturday. I had walked among unusual events--and had not known the
wonder of them! I had eyes, but I did not see--and ears, but I heard
not. It may be, it _may_ be, that the Future Life of which we have had
such confusing but wistful prophecies is only the reliving with a full
understanding, of this marvellous Life that we now know. To a full
understanding this day, this moment even--here in this quiet room--would
contain enough to crowd an eternity. Oh, we are children yet--playing
with things much too large for us--much too full of meaning.
* * * * *
Yesterday I cut my field of early clover. I should have been at it a
full week earlier if it had not been for the frequent and sousing spring
showers. Already half the blossoms of the clover had turned brown and
were shriveling away into inconspicuous seediness. The leaves underneath
on the lower parts of the stems were curling up and fading; many of
them had already dropped away. There is a tide also in the affairs of
clover and if a farmer would profit by his crop, it must be taken at its
flood.
I began to watch the skies with some anxiety, and on Thursday I was
delighted to see the weather become clearer, and a warm dry wind spring
up from the southwest. On Friday there was not so much as a cloud of the
size of a man's hand to be seen anywhere in the sky, not one, and the
sun with lively diligence had begun to make up for the listlessness of
the past week. It was hot and dry enough to suit the most exacting
hay-maker.
Encouraged by these favourable symptoms I sent word to Dick Sheridan (by
one of Horace's men) to come over bright and early on Saturday morning.
My field is only a small one and so rough and uneven that I had
concluded with Dick's help to cut it by hand. I thought that on a pinch
it could all be done in one day.
"Harriet," I said, "we'll cut the clover to-morrow."
"That's fortunate," said Harriet, "I'd already arranged to have Ann
Spencer in to help me."
Yesterday morning, then, I got out earlier than usual. It was a perfect
June morning, one of the brightest and clearest I think I ever saw. The
mists had not yet risen from the hollows of my lower fields, and all the
earth was fresh with dew and sweet with the mingled odours of growing
things. No hour of the whole day is more perfect than this.
I walked out along the edge of the orchard and climbed the fence of the
field beyond. As I stooped over I could smell the heavy sweet odour of
the clover blossoms. I could see the billowy green sweep of the
glistening leaves. I lifted up a mass of the tangled stems and laid the
palm of my hand on the earth underneath. It was neither too wet nor too
dry.
"We shall have good cutting to-day," I said to myself.
So I stood up and looked with a satisfaction impossible to describe
across the acres of my small domain, marking where in the low spots the
crop seemed heaviest, where it was lodged and tangled by the wind and
the rain, and where in the higher spaces it grew scarce thick enough to
cover the sad baldness of the knolls. How much more we get out of life
than we deserve!
So I walked along the edge of the field to the orchard gate, which I
opened wide.
"Here," I said, "is where we will begin."
So I turned back to the barn. I had not reached the other side of the
orchard when who should I see but Dick Sheridan himself, coming in at
the lane gate. He had an old, coarse-woven straw hat stuck resplendently
on the back of his head. He was carrying his scythe jauntily over his
shoulder and whistling "Good-bye, Susan" at the top of his capacity.
Dick Sheridan is a cheerful young fellow with a thin brown face and
(milky) blue eyes. He has an enormous Adam's apple which has an odd way
of moving up and down when he talks--and one large tooth out in front.
His body is like a bundle of wires, as thin and muscular and enduring as
that of a broncho pony. He can work all day long and then go down to the
lodge-hall at the Crossing and dance half the night. You should really
see him when he dances! He can jump straight up and click his heels
twice together before he comes down again! On such occasions he is
marvellously clad, as befits the gallant that he really is, but this
morning he wore a faded shirt and one of his suspender cords behind was
fastened with a nail instead of a button. His socks are sometimes pale
blue and sometimes lavender and commonly, therefore, he turns up his
trouser legs so that these vanities may not be wholly lost upon a dull
world. His full name is Richard Tecumseh Sheridan, but every one calls
him Dick. A good, cheerful fellow, Dick, and a hard worker. I like him.
"Hello, Dick," I shouted.
"Hello yourself, Mr. Grayson," he replied.
He hung his scythe in the branches of a pear tree and we both turned
into the barnyard to get the chores out of the way. I wanted to delay
cutting as long as I could--until the dew on the clover should begin--at
least--to disappear.
By half-past-seven we were ready for work. We rolled back our sleeves,
stood our scythes on end and gave them a final lively stoning. You could
hear the brisk sound of the ringing metal pealing through the still
morning air.
"It's a great day for haying," I said.
"A dang good one," responded the laconic Dick, wetting his thumb to feel
the edge of his scythe.
I cannot convey with any mere pen upon any mere paper the feeling of
jauntiness I had at that moment, as of conquest and fresh adventure, as
of great things to be done in a great world! You may say if you like
that this exhilaration was due to good health and the exuberance of
youth. But it was more than that--far more. I cannot well express it,
but it seemed as though at that moment Dick and I were stepping out into
some vast current of human activity: as though we had the universe
itself behind us, and the warm regard and approval of all men.
I stuck my whetstone in my hip-pocket, bent forward and cut the first
short sharp swath in the clover. I swept the mass of tangled green stems
into the open space just outside the gate. Three or four more strokes
and Dick stopped whistling suddenly, spat on his hands and with a lively
"Here she goes!" came swinging in behind me. The clover-cutting had
begun.
At first I thought the heat would be utterly unendurable, and, then,
with dripping face and wet shoulders, I forgot all about it. Oh, there
is something incomparable about such work--the long steady pull of
willing and healthy muscles, the mind undisturbed by any disquieting
thought, the feeling of attainment through vigorous effort! It was a
steady swing and swish, swish and swing! When Dick led I have a picture
of him in my mind's eye--his wiry thin legs, one heel lifted at each
step and held rigid for a single instant, a glimpse of pale blue socks
above his rusty shoes and three inches of whetstone sticking from his
tight hip-pocket. It was good to have him there whether he led or
followed.
At each return to the orchard end of the field we looked for and found a
gray stone jug in the grass. I had brought it up with me filled with
cool water from the pump. Dick had a way of swinging it up with one
hand, resting it in his shoulder, turning his head just so and letting
the water gurgle into his throat. I have never been able myself to reach
this refinement in the art of drinking from a jug.
And oh! the good feel of a straightened back after two long swathes in
the broiling sun! We would stand a moment in the shade, whetting our
scythes, not saying much, but glad to be there together. Then we would
go at it again with renewed energy. It is a great thing to have a
working companion. Many times that day Dick and I looked aside at each
other with a curious sense of friendliness--that sense of friendliness
which grows out of common rivalries, common difficulties and a common
weariness. We did not talk much: and that little of trivial matters.
"Jim Brewster's mare had a colt on Wednesday."
"This'll go three tons to the acre, or I'll eat my shirt."
Dick was always about to eat his shirt if some particular prophecy of
his did not materialize.
"Dang it all," says Dick, "the moon's drawin' water."
"Something is undoubtedly drawing it," said I, wiping my dripping face.
A meadow lark sprang up with a song in the adjoining field, a few heavy
old bumblebees droned in the clover as we cut it, and once a frightened
rabbit ran out, darting swiftly under the orchard fence.
So the long forenoon slipped away. At times it seemed endless, and yet
we were surprised when we heard the bell from the house (what a sound it
was!) and we left our cutting in the middle of the field, nor waited for
another stroke.
"Hungry, Dick?" I asked.
"Hungry!" exclaimed Dick with all the eloquence of a lengthy oration
crowded into one word.
So we drifted through the orchard, and it was good to see the house with
smoke in the kitchen chimney, and the shade of the big maple where it
rested upon the porch. And not far from the maple we could see our
friendly pump with the moist boards of the well-cover in front of it. I
cannot tell you how good it looked as we came in from the hot, dry
fields.
"After you," says Dick.
I gave my sleeves another roll upward and unbuttoned and turned in the
moist collar of my shirt. Then I stooped over and put my head under the
pump spout.
"Pump, Dick," said I.
And Dick pumped.
"Harder, Dick," said I in a strangled voice.
And Dick pumped still harder, and presently I came up gasping with my
head and hair dripping with the cool water. Then I pumped for Dick.
"Gee, but that's good," says Dick.
Harriet came out with clean towels, and we dried ourselves, and talked
together in low voices. And feeling a delicious sense of coolness we sat
down for a moment in the shade of the maple and rested our arms on our
knees. From the kitchen, as we sat there, we could hear the engaging
sounds of preparation, and busy voices, and the tinkling of dishes, and
agreeable odours! Ah, friend and brother, there may not be better
moments in life than this!
So we sat resting, thinking of nothing; and presently we heard the
screen door click and Ann Spencer's motherly voice:
"Come in now, Mr. Grayson, and get your dinner."
Harriet had set the table on the east porch, where it was cool and
shady. Dick and I sat down opposite each other and between us there was
a great brown bowl of moist brown beans with crispy strips of pork on
top, and a good steam rising from its depths; and a small mountain of
baked potatoes, each a little broken to show the snowy white interior;
and two towers of such new bread as no one on this earth (or in any
other planet so far as I know) but Harriet can make. And before we had
even begun our dinner in came the ample Ann Spencer, quaking with
hospitality, and bearing a platter--let me here speak of it with the
bated breath of a proper respect, for I cannot even now think of it
without a sort of inner thrill--bearing a platter of her most famous
fried chicken. Harriet had sacrificed the promising careers of two young
roosters upon the altar of this important occasion. I may say in passing
that Ann Spencer is more celebrated in our neighbourhood by virtue of
her genius at frying chicken, than Aristotle or Solomon or Socrates, or
indeed all the big-wigs of the past rolled into one.
So we fell to with a silent but none the less fervid enthusiasm. Harriet
hovered about us, in and out of the kitchen, and poured the tea and the
buttermilk, and Ann Spencer upon every possible occasion passed the
chicken.
"More chicken, Mr. Grayson?" she would inquire in a tone of voice that
made your mouth water.
"More chicken, Dick?" I'd ask.
"More chicken, Mr. Grayson," he would respond--and thus we kept up a
tenuous, but pleasant little joke between us.
Just outside the porch in a thicket of lilacs a catbird sang to us while
we ate, and my dog lay in the shade with his nose on his paws and one
eye open just enough to show any stray flies that he was not to be
trifled with--and far away to the North and East one could catch
glimpses--if he had eyes for such things--of the wide-stretching
pleasantness of our countryside.
I soon saw that something mysterious was going on in the kitchen.
Harriet would look significantly at Ann Spencer and Ann Spencer, who
could scarcely contain her overflowing smiles, would look significantly
at Harriet. As for me, I sat there with perfect confidence in myself--in
my ultimate capacity, as it were. Whatever happened, I was ready for it!
And the great surprise came at last: a SHORT-CAKE: a great, big, red,
juicy, buttery, sugary short-cake, with raspberries heaped up all over
it. When It came in--and I am speaking of it in that personal way
because it radiated such an effulgence that I cannot now remember
whether it was Harriet or Ann Spencer who brought it in--when It came
in, Dick, who pretends to be abashed upon such occasions, gave one swift
glance upward and then emitted a long, low, expressive whistle. When
Beethoven found himself throbbing with undescribable emotions he
composed a sonata; when Keats felt odd things stirring within him he
wrote an ode to an urn, but my friend Dick, quite as evidently on fire
with his emotions, merely whistled--and then looked around evidently
embarrassed lest he should have infringed upon the proprieties of that
occasion.
"Harriet," I said, "you and Ann Spencer are benefactors of the human
race."
"Go 'way now," said Ann Spencer, shaking all over with pleasure, "and
eat your shortcake."
And after dinner how pleasant it was to stretch at full length for a
few minutes on the grass in the shade of the maple tree and look up
through the dusky thick shadows of the leaves. If ever a man feels the
blissfulness of complete content it is at such a moment--every muscle in
the body deliciously resting, and a peculiar exhilaration animating the
mind to quiet thoughts. I have heard talk of the hard work of the
hay-fields, but I never yet knew a healthy man who did not recall many
moments of exquisite pleasure connected with the hardest and the hottest
work.
I think sometimes that the nearer a man can place himself in the full
current of natural things the happier he is. If he can become a part of
the Universal Process and know that he is a part, that is happiness. All
day yesterday I had that deep quiet feeling that I was somehow not
working for myself, not because I was covetous for money, nor driven by
fear, not surely for fame, but somehow that I was a necessary element in
the processes of the earth. I was a primal force! I was the
indispensable Harvester. Without me the earth could not revolve!
Oh, friend, there are spiritual values here, too. For how can a man
know God without yielding himself fully to the processes of God?
I _lived_ yesterday. I played my part. I took my place. And all hard
things grew simple, and all crooked things seemed straight, and all
roads were open and clear before me. Many times that day I paused and
looked up from my work knowing that I had something to be happy for.
At one o'clock Dick and I lagged our way unwillingly out to work
again--rusty of muscles, with a feeling that the heat would now surely
be unendurable and the work impossibly hard. The scythes were oddly
heavy and hot to the touch, and the stones seemed hardly to make a sound
in the heavy noon air. The cows had sought the shady pasture edges, the
birds were still, all the air shook with heat. Only man must toil!
"It's danged hot," said Dick conclusively.
How reluctantly we began the work and how difficult it seemed compared
with the task of the morning! In half an hour, however, the reluctance
passed away and we were swinging as steadily as we did at any time in
the forenoon. But we said less--if that were possible--and made every
ounce of energy count. I shall not here attempt to chronicle all the
events of the afternoon, how we finished the mowing of the field and how
we went over it swiftly and raked the long windrows into cocks, or how,
as the evening began to fall, we turned at last wearily toward the
house. The day's work was done.
Dick had stopped whistling long before the middle of the afternoon, but
now as he shouldered his scythe he struck up "My Fairy Fay" with some
marks of his earlier enthusiasm.
"Well, Dick," said I, "we've had a good day's work together."
"You bet," said Dick.
And I watched him as he went down the lane with a pleasant friendly
feeling of companionship. We had done great things together.
I wonder if you ever felt the joy of utter physical weariness: not
exhaustion, but weariness. I wonder if you have ever sat down, as I did
last night, and felt as though you would like to remain just there
always--without stirring a single muscle, without speaking, without
thinking even!
Such a moment is not painful, but quite the reverse--it is supremely
pleasant. So I sat for a time last evening on my porch. The cool, still
night had fallen sweetly after the burning heat of the day. I heard all
the familiar sounds of the night. A whippoorwill began to whistle in the
distant thicket. Harriet came out quietly--I could see the white of her
gown--and sat near me. I heard the occasional sleepy tinkle of a
cowbell, and the crickets were calling. A star or two came out in the
perfect dark blue of the sky. The deep, sweet, restful night was on. I
don't know that I said it aloud--such things need not be said aloud--but
as I turned almost numbly into the house, stumbling on my way to bed, my
whole being seemed to cry out: "Thank God, thank God!"