Walden

Chapter 10

"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

serfs.

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.