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    Chapter 7

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    Chapter 7
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    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 Antaeus. 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.
    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 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.
    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 Rans des Vaches 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.
    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 nighthawk
    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.
    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.
    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.
    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.
    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.
    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 unusualy well as far as I
    went, and was paid for it in the end, "there being in truth," as
    Evelyn says, "no compost or laetation 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.
    But to be more particular, for it is complained that Mr. Coleman
    has reported chiefly the expensive experiments of gentlemen farmers,
    my outgoes were,--

    For a hoe ................................... $ 0.54
    Plowing, harrowing, and furrowing ............ 7.50 Too much.
    Beans for seed ............................... 3.12+
    Potatoes for seed ............................ 1.33
    Peas for seed ................................ 0.40
    Turnip seed .................................. 0.06
    White line for crow fence .................... 0.02
    Horse cultivator and boy three hours ......... 1.00
    Horse and cart to get crop ................... 0.75
    --------
    In all .................................. $14.72+

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

    Nine bushels and twelve quarts of beans sold .. $16.94
    Five " large potatoes ..................... 2.50
    Nine " small .............................. 2.25
    Grass ........................................... 1.00
    Stalks .......................................... 0.75
    -------
    In all .................................... $23.44
    Leaving a pecuniary profit,
    as I have elsewhere said, of .............. $ 8.71+

    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.
    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:--

    "And as he spake, his wings would now and then
    Spread, as he meant to fly, then close again --"

    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.
    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 quaestus), 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."
    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.
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