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    Chapter 10

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    Chapter 10
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    Sometimes I rambled to pine groves, standing like temples, or
    like fleets at sea, full-rigged, with wavy boughs, and rippling with
    light, so soft and green and shady that the Druids would have
    forsaken their oaks to worship in them; or to the cedar wood beyond
    Flint's Pond, where the trees, covered with hoary blue berries,
    spiring higher and higher, are fit to stand before Valhalla, and the
    creeping juniper covers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to
    swamps where the usnea lichen hangs in festoons from the white
    spruce trees, and toadstools, round tables of the swamp gods, cover
    the ground, and more beautiful fungi adorn the stumps, like
    butterflies or shells, vegetable winkles; where the swamp-pink and
    dogwood grow, the red alderberry glows like eyes of imps, the
    waxwork grooves and crushes the hardest woods in its folds, and the
    wild holly berries make the beholder forget his home with their
    beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless other wild
    forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste. Instead of calling on
    some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees, of kinds
    which are rare in this neighborhood, standing far away in the middle
    of some pasture, or in the depths of a wood or swamp, or on a
    hilltop; such as the black birch, of which we have some handsome
    specimens two feet in diameter; its cousin, the yellow birch, with
    its loose golden vest, perfumed like the first; the beech, which has
    so neat a bole and beautifully lichen-painted, perfect in all its
    details, of which, excepting scattered specimens, I know but one
    small grove of sizable trees left in the township, supposed by some
    to have been planted by the pigeons that were once baited with
    beechnuts near by; it is worth the while to see the silver grain
    sparkle when you split this wood; the bass; the hornbeam; the Celtis
    occidentalis, or false elm, of which we have but one well-grown;
    some taller mast of a pine, a shingle tree, or a more perfect
    hemlock than usual, standing like a pagoda in the midst of the
    woods; and many others I could mention. These were the shrines I
    visited both summer and winter.
    Once it chanced that I stood in the very abutment of a rainbow's
    arch, which filled the lower stratum of the atmosphere, tinging the
    grass and leaves around, and dazzling me as if I looked through
    colored crystal. It was a lake of rainbow light, in which, for a
    short while, I lived like a dolphin. If it had lasted longer it
    might have tinged my employments and life. As I walked on the
    railroad causeway, I used to wonder at the halo of light around my
    shadow, and would fain fancy myself one of the elect. One who
    visited me declared that the shadows of some Irishmen before him had
    no halo about them, that it was only natives that were so
    distinguished. Benvenuto Cellini tells us in his memoirs, that,
    after a certain terrible dream or vision which he had during his
    confinement in the castle of St. Angelo a resplendent light appeared
    over the shadow of his head at morning and evening, whether he was
    in Italy or France, and it was particularly conspicuous when the
    grass was moist with dew. This was probably the same phenomenon to
    which I have referred, which is especially observed in the morning,
    but also at other times, and even by moonlight. Though a constant
    one, it is not commonly noticed, and, in the case of an excitable
    imagination like Cellini's, it would be basis enough for
    superstition. Beside, he tells us that he showed it to very few.
    But are they not indeed distinguished who are conscious that they
    are regarded at all?
    I set out one afternoon to go a-fishing to Fair Haven, through
    the woods, to eke out my scanty fare of vegetables. My way led
    through Pleasant Meadow, an adjunct of the Baker Farm, that retreat
    of which a poet has since sung, beginning,--

    "Thy entry is a pleasant field,
    Which some mossy fruit trees yield
    Partly to a ruddy brook,
    By gliding musquash undertook,
    And mercurial trout,
    Darting about."

    I thought of living there before I went to Walden. I "hooked" the
    apples, leaped the brook, and scared the musquash and the trout. It
    was one of those afternoons which seem indefinitely long before one,
    in which many events may happen, a large portion of our natural
    life, though it was already half spent when I started. By the way
    there came up a shower, which compelled me to stand half an hour
    under a pine, piling boughs over my head, and wearing my
    handkerchief for a shed; and when at length I had made one cast over
    the pickerelweed, standing up to my middle in water, I found myself
    suddenly in the shadow of a cloud, and the thunder began to rumble
    with such emphasis that I could do no more than listen to it. The
    gods must be proud, thought I, with such forked flashes to rout a
    poor unarmed fisherman. So I made haste for shelter to the nearest
    hut, which stood half a mile from any road, but so much the nearer
    to the pond, and had long been uninhabited:--

    "And here a poet builded,
    In the completed years,
    For behold a trivial cabin
    That to destruction steers."

    So the Muse fables. But therein, as I found, dwelt now John Field,
    an Irishman, and his wife, and several children, from the
    broad-faced boy who assisted his father at his work, and now came
    running by his side from the bog to escape the rain, to the
    wrinkled, sibyl-like, cone-headed infant that sat upon its father's
    knee as in the palaces of nobles, and looked out from its home in
    the midst of wet and hunger inquisitively upon the stranger, with
    the privilege of infancy, not knowing but it was the last of a noble
    line, and the hope and cynosure of the world, instead of John
    Field's poor starveling brat. There we sat together under that part
    of the roof which leaked the least, while it showered and thundered
    without. I had sat there many times of old before the ship was
    built that floated his family to America. An honest, hard-working,
    but shiftless man plainly was John Field; and his wife, she too was
    brave to cook so many successive dinners in the recesses of that
    lofty stove; with round greasy face and bare breast, still thinking
    to improve her condition one day; with the never absent mop in one
    hand, and yet no effects of it visible anywhere. The chickens,
    which had also taken shelter here from the rain, stalked about the
    room like members of the family, too humanized, methought, to roast
    well. They stood and looked in my eye or pecked at my shoe
    significantly. Meanwhile my host told me his story, how hard he
    worked "bogging" for a neighboring farmer, turning up a meadow with
    a spade or bog hoe at the rate of ten dollars an acre and the use of
    the land with manure for one year, and his little broad-faced son
    worked cheerfully at his father's side the while, not knowing how
    poor a bargain the latter had made. I tried to help him with my
    experience, telling him that he was one of my nearest neighbors, and
    that I too, who came a-fishing here, and looked like a loafer, was
    getting my living like himself; that I lived in a tight, light, and
    clean house, which hardly cost more than the annual rent of such a
    ruin as his commonly amounts to; and how, if he chose, he might in a
    month or two build himself a palace of his own; that I did not use
    tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor milk, nor fresh meat, and so did
    not have to work to get them; again, as I did not work hard, I did
    not have to eat hard, and it cost me but a trifle for my food; but
    as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter, and milk, and beef, he
    had to work hard to pay for them, and when he had worked hard he had
    to eat hard again to repair the waste of his system -- and so it was
    as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader than it was long, for
    he was discontented and wasted his life into the bargain; and yet he
    had rated it as a gain in coming to America, that here you could get
    tea, and coffee, and meat every day. But the only true America is
    that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life
    as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not
    endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other
    superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the
    use of such things. For I purposely talked to him as if he were a
    philosopher, or desired to be one. I should be glad if all the
    meadows on the earth were left in a wild state, if that were the
    consequence of men's beginning to redeem themselves. A man will not
    need to study history to find out what is best for his own culture.
    But alas! the culture of an Irishman is an enterprise to be
    undertaken with a sort of moral bog hoe. I told him, that as he
    worked so hard at bogging, he required thick boots and stout
    clothing, which yet were soon soiled and worn out, but I wore light
    shoes and thin clothing, which cost not half so much, though he
    might think that I was dressed like a gentleman (which, however, was
    not the case), and in an hour or two, without labor, but as a
    recreation, I could, if I wished, catch as many fish as I should
    want for two days, or earn enough money to support me a week. If he
    and his family would live simply, they might all go a-huckleberrying
    in the summer for their amusement. John heaved a sigh at this, and
    his wife stared with arms a-kimbo, and both appeared to be wondering
    if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or
    arithmetic enough to carry it through. It was sailing by dead
    reckoning to them, and they saw not clearly how to make their port
    so; therefore I suppose they still take life bravely, after their
    fashion, face to face, giving it tooth and nail, not having skill to
    split its massive columns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it
    in detail; -- thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should handle
    a thistle. But they fight at an overwhelming disadvantage --
    living, John Field, alas! without arithmetic, and failing so.
    "Do you ever fish?" I asked. "Oh yes, I catch a mess now and
    then when I am lying by; good perch I catch. -- "What's your bait?"
    "I catch shiners with fishworms, and bait the perch with them."
    "You'd better go now, John," said his wife, with glistening and
    hopeful face; but John demurred.
    The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods
    promised a fair evening; so I took my departure. When I had got
    without I asked for a drink, hoping to get a sight of the well
    bottom, to complete my survey of the premises; but there, alas! are
    shallows and quicksands, and rope broken withal, and bucket
    irrecoverable. Meanwhile the right culinary vessel was selected,
    water was seemingly distilled, and after consultation and long delay
    passed out to the thirsty one -- not yet suffered to cool, not yet
    to settle. Such gruel sustains life here, I thought; so, shutting
    my eyes, and excluding the motes by a skilfully directed
    undercurrent, I drank to genuine hospitality the heartiest draught I
    could. I am not squeamish in such cases when manners are concerned.
    As I was leaving the Irishman's roof after the rain, bending my
    steps again to the pond, my haste to catch pickerel, wading in
    retired meadows, in sloughs and bog-holes, in forlorn and savage
    places, appeared for an instant trivial to me who had been sent to
    school and college; but as I ran down the hill toward the reddening
    west, with the rainbow over my shoulder, and some faint tinkling
    sounds borne to my ear through the cleansed air, from I know not
    what quarter, my Good Genius seemed to say -- Go fish and hunt far
    and wide day by day -- farther and wider -- and rest thee by many
    brooks and hearth-sides without misgiving. Remember thy Creator in
    the days of thy youth. Rise free from care before the dawn, and
    seek adventures. Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the
    night overtake thee everywhere at home. There are no larger fields
    than these, no worthier games than may here be played. Grow wild
    according to thy nature, like these sedges and brakes, which will
    never become English bay. Let the thunder rumble; what if it
    threaten ruin to farmers' crops? That is not its errand to thee.
    Take shelter under the cloud, while they flee to carts and sheds.
    Let not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the
    land, but own it not. Through want of enterprise and faith men are
    where they are, buying and selling, and spending their lives like

    O Baker Farm!
    "Landscape where the richest element
    Is a little sunshine innocent." ...
    "No one runs to revel
    On thy rail-fenced lea." ...
    "Debate with no man hast thou,
    With questions art never perplexed,
    As tame at the first sight as now,
    In thy plain russet gabardine dressed." ...
    "Come ye who love,
    And ye who hate,
    Children of the Holy Dove,
    And Guy Faux of the state,
    And hang conspiracies
    From the tough rafters of the trees!"

    Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or
    street, where their household echoes haunt, and their life pines
    because it breathes its own breath over again; their shadows,
    morning and evening, reach farther than their daily steps. We
    should come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and
    discoveries every day, with new experience and character.
    Before I had reached the pond some fresh impulse had brought out
    John Field, with altered mind, letting go "bogging" ere this sunset.
    But he, poor man, disturbed only a couple of fins while I was
    catching a fair string, and he said it was his luck; but when we
    changed seats in the boat luck changed seats too. Poor John Field!
    -- I trust he does not read this, unless he will improve by it --
    thinking to live by some derivative old-country mode in this
    primitive new country -- to catch perch with shiners. It is good
    bait sometimes, I allow. With his horizon all his own, yet he a
    poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish poverty or poor
    life, his Adam's grandmother and boggy ways, not to rise in this
    world, he nor his posterity, till their wading webbed bog-trotting
    feet get talaria to their heels.
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