Only it is not an old man—it is the farm, the blessed old farm, unkempt, unshorn, out at the elbows. In spite of itself, in spite of me, in spite of everybody, the farm is being groomed4.
It is nobody's fault, of course. Like most hopelessly disastrous6 things, it has all been done with the best possible intentions, perhaps it has even been necessary, but it is none the less deplorable.[Pg 88]
It began, I think, with the sheds. They had in ages past been added one after another by a method of almost unconscious accretion7, as the chambered nautilus makes his shell. They looked as if they had been, not exactly built, but rather laid together in the desultory8, provisional fashion of the farmer, and held by an occasional nail, or the natural adhesion of the boards themselves. They leaned confidingly9 against the great barn and settled comfortably among the bare faces of rock in the barnyard, as if they had always been there, as, indeed, they had been there longer than any one now living can remember. Neither they nor the barn had ever been painted, and they had all weathered to a silver-gray—not the gray of any paint or stain ever made, but the gray that comes only to certain kinds of wood when it has lived out in the rain and the sunshine for fifty, seventy, a hundred years. It is to an old building what white hair is to an old lady. And as not all white hair is beautiful, so not all gray buildings are beautiful. But these were beautiful. When it rained, they grew dark and every knot-hole showed. When the sun came out and baked them dry, they[Pg 89] paled to silver, and the smooth, rain-worn grooves10 and hollows of the boards glistened11 like a rifle barrel.
The sheds were, I am afraid, not very useful. One, they said, had been built to hold ploughs, another for turkeys, another for ducks. One, the only one that was hen-tight, we used for the incarceration12 of confirmed "setters," and it thus gained the title of "Durance Vile13." The rest were nameless, the abode14 of cobwebs and rats and old grain-bags and stolen nests and surprise broods of chickens, who dropped through cracks between loose boards and had to be extracted by Jonathan with much difficulty. Perhaps it was this that set him against them. At all events, he decided15 that they must go. I protested faintly, trying to think of some really sensible argument.
"But Durance Vile," I said. "We need that. Where shall we put the setters?"
"No, we don't. That isn't the way to treat setters, anyway. They should be cooped and fed on meat."
"I suppose you read that in one of those agricultural experiment station pamphlets," I said.[Pg 90]
Many things that I consider disasters on the farm can be traced to one or another of these little pamphlets, and when a new one arrives I regard it with resignation but without cordiality.
The sheds went, and I missed them. Possibly the hens missed them too. They wandered thoughtfully about the barnyard, stepping rather higher than usual, cocking their heads and regarding me with their red-rimmed eyes as if they were cluckfully conjuring16 up old associations. Did they remember Durance Vile? Perhaps, but probably not. For all their philosophic17 airs and their attitudinizing, I know nobody who thinks less than a hen, or, at all events, their thinking is contemplative rather than practical.
Jonathan also surveyed the raw spot. But Jonathan's mind is practical rather than contemplative.
"Just the place for a carriage-house," he remarked.
And the carriage-house was perpetrated. Perhaps a hundred years from now it will have been assimilated, but at present it stands out absolutely undigested in all its[Pg 91] uncompromising newness of line and color. Its ridgepole, its roof edges, its corners, look as if they had been drawn18 with a ruler, where those of the old barn were sketched19 freehand. The barn and the sheds had settled into the landscape, the carriage-house cut into it.
Even Jonathan saw it. "We'll paint it the old-fashioned red to make it more in keeping," he said apologetically.
But old-fashioned red is apparently20 not to be had in new-fashioned cans. And the farm remained implacable: it refused to digest the carriage-house. I felt rather proud of the farm for being so firm.
The next blow was a heavy one. In the middle of the cowyard there was a wonderful gray rock, shoulder high, with a flat top and three sides abrupt21, the other sloping. I used to sit on this rock and feed the hens and watch the "critters" come into the yard at milking-time. I like "critters," but when there are more than two or three in the yard, including some irresponsible calves22, I like to have some vantage-point from which to view them—and be viewed. Our cattle are always gentle, but some of them are, to use a colloquial23 word[Pg 92] that seems to me richly descriptive, so "nose-y."
Of course a rock like this did not belong in a well-planned barnyard. Nowhere, except in New England, or perhaps in Switzerland, would one occur. But in our part of New England they occur so thickly that they are hard to dodge24, even in building a house. I remember an entry in an old ledger25 discovered in the attic26: "To blasten rocks in my sollor—￡0 3 6."
Without doubt the rock was in the way. Jonathan used to speak about it in ungentle terms every time he drove in and turned around. But this gave me no anxiety, because I felt sure that it had survived much stronger language than his. I did not think about dynamite27. Probably when the Psalmist wrote about the eternal hills he did not think about dynamite either.
And dynamite did the deed. It broke my pretty rock into little pieces as one might break up a chunk28 of maple29 sugar with a pair of scissors. It made a beautiful barnyard, but I missed my refuge, my stronghold.
But this was only the beginning. Back of[Pg 93] the barns lay the farm itself—scores of acres, chiefly rocks and huckleberry bushes, with thistles and mullein and sumac. There were dry, warm slopes, where the birches grew; not the queenly paper birch of the North, but the girlish little gray birch with its veil of twinkling leaves and its glimmer30 of slender stems. There were rugged31 ledges32, deep-shadowed with oak and chestnut33; there were hot, open hillsides thick-set with cat-brier and blackberry canes34, where one could never go without setting a brown rabbit scampering35. It was a delectable36 farm, but not, in the ordinary sense, highly productive, and its appeal was rather to the contemplative than to the practical mind.
Jonathan was from the first infected with the desire of making the farm more productive—in the ordinary sense; and one day, when I wandered up to a distant corner, oh, dismay! There was a slope of twinkling birches—no longer twinkling—prone! Cut, dragged, and piled up in masses of white stems and limp green leafage and tangled37 red-brown twigs38! It was a sorry sight. I walked about it much, perhaps, as my white hens had walked[Pg 94] about the barnyard, and to as little purpose. For the contemplative mind is no match for the practical. I knew this, yet I could not forbear saying, later:—
"Jonathan, I was up near the long meadow to-day."
"Were you?"
"O Jonathan! Those birches!"
"What about them?"
"All cut!"
"Oh, yes. We need that piece for pasturage."
"Oh, dear! We might as well not have a farm if we cut down all the birches."
"We might as well not have a farm if we don't cut them down. They'll run us out in no time."
"They don't look as if they would run anybody out—the dears!"
"Why, I didn't know you felt that way about them. We'll let that other patch stand, if you like."
"If I like!"
I saved the birches, but other things kept happening. I went out one day and found one of our prettiest fence lines reduced to bare[Pg 95] bones, all its bushes and vines—clematis, elderberry, wild cherry, sweet-fern, bitter-sweet—all cut, hacked40, torn away. It looked like a collie dog in the summer when his long yellow fur has been sheared41 off. And, another day, it was a company of red lilies escaped along a bank above the roadside. There were weeds mixed in, to be sure, and some bushes, a delightful42 tangle—and all snipped43, shaved to the skin!
When I spoke44 about it, Jonathan said: "I'm sorry. I suppose Hiram was just making the place shipshape."
"Shipshape! This farm shipshape! You could no more make this farm shipshape than you could make a woodchuck look as though he had been groomed. The farm isn't a ship."
"I hope it isn't a woodchuck, either," said Jonathan.
During the haying season there was always a lull45. The hand of the destroyer was stayed. Rather, every one was so busy cutting the hay that there was no time to cut anything else. One day in early August I took a pail and sauntered up the lane in the peaceful mood of the berry-picker—a state of mind as satisfactory[Pg 96] as any I know. One is conscious of being useful—for what more useful than the accumulating of berries for pies? One has suitable ideals—the ideal of a happy home, since in attaining46 a happy home berry pies are demonstrably helpful. And one is also having a beautiful time. On my way I turned down the side lane to see how the blackberries were coming on. There lay my blackberry canes—lay, not stood—their long stems thick-set with fruit just turning from light red to dark. I do not love blackberries as I do birches; it was rather the practical than the contemplative part of me that protested that time, but it was with a lagging step that I went on, over the hill, to the berry patches. There another shock awaited me. Where I expected to see green clumps48 of low huckleberries there were great blotches49 of black earth and gray ashy stems, and in the midst a heap of brush still sending up idle streamers and puffs50 of blue smoke. Desolation of desolations! That they should do this thing to a harmless berry patch!
They were not all burned. Only the heart of the patch had been taken, and after the[Pg 97] first shock I explored the edges to see what was left, but with no courage for picking. I came home with an empty pail and a mind severe.
"Jonathan," I said that night, "I thought you liked pies?"
"I do," he said expectantly.
"Well, what do you like in them?"
"Berries, preferably."
"Oh, I thought perhaps you preferred cinders51 or dried briers."
Jonathan looked up inquiringly, then a light broke. "Oh, you mean those blackberry bushes. Didn't I tell you about that? That was a mistake."
"So I thought," I said, unappeased.
"I mean, I didn't mean them to be cut. It was that fool hobo I gave work to last week. I told him to cut the brush in the lane. Idiot! I thought he knew a blackberry bush!"
"With the fruit on it, too," I added, relenting toward Jonathan a little. Then I stiffened52 again. "How about the huckleberry patch? Was that a mistake, too?"
Jonathan looked guilty, but held himself as a man should.[Pg 98]
"Why, no," he said; "that is, Hiram thought we needed more ground to plough up next year, and that's as good a piece as there is—no big rocks or trees, you know. And we must have crops, you know."
"Bless the rocks!" I burst out. "I wish there were more of them! If it weren't for the rocks the farm would be all crops!"
Jonathan laughed, then we both laughed.
"You talk as though that would be a misfortune," he said.
"It would be simply unendurable," I replied.
"Jonathan," I added, "I am afraid you have not a proper subordination of values. I have heard of one farmer—just one—who had."
"What is it?—and who was he?" said Jonathan, submissively.
I think he was relieved that the huckleberry question was not being followed up.
"I believe he was your great-uncle by marriage. They say that there was a certain field that was full of butterfly-weed—you know, gorgeous orange stuff—"
"I know," said he. "What about it?"[Pg 99]
"Well, there was a meadow that was full of it, just in its glory when the grass was ready to cut. Jonathan, what would you have done?"
"Go on," said Jonathan.
"Well, he always mowed53 that field himself, and when he came to a clump47 of butterfly-weed, he always mowed around it."
"Very pretty," said Jonathan, in an impersonal54 way.
"And that," I added, "is what I call having a proper subordination of values."
"I see," said he.
"And now," I went on, with almost too ostentatious sweetness, "if you will tell me where to find a huckleberry patch that is not already reduced to cinders, I will go out to-morrow and get some for pies."
Jonathan knew, and so did I, that there were still plenty of berry bushes left. Nevertheless, he was moved.
"Now, see here," he began seriously, "I don't want to spoil the farm for you. Only I don't know which things you like. If you'll just tell me the places you don't want touched, I'll speak to Hiram about them."
"Really?" I exclaimed. "Why, I'll tell[Pg 100] you now, right away. There's the lane—you know, that mustn't be touched; and the ledges—but you couldn't do anything to those, of course, anyway."
"No, even the hobo wouldn't tackle them," said Jonathan grimly.
"And the birches, the ones that are left. You promised me those, you know. And the swamp, of course, and the cedar55 knoll56 where the high-bush blueberries grow, and then—oh, yes—that lovely hillside beyond the long meadow where the sumac is, and the dogwood, and everything. And, of course, the rest of the huckleberries—"
"The rest of the huckleberries!" said he. "That means all the farm. There isn't a spot as big as your hat where you can't show me some sort of a huckleberry bush."
"So much the better," I said contentedly57.
"Oh, come now," he protested. "Be reasonable. Even your wonderful farmer that you tell about did a little mowing58. He mowed around the butterfly-weed, but he mowed. You're making the farm into solid butterfly-weed, and there'll be no mowing at all."
"Why, Jonathan, I've left you the long[Pg 101] meadow, and the corner meadow, and the hill orchard59, and then there's the ten-acre lot for corn and potatoes—only I wish you wouldn't plant potatoes."
"What's the matter with potatoes?"
"Oh, I don't know. First, they are too neat and green, and then they are all covered with potato-bug powder, and then they wither60 up and lie all around, and then they are dug, and the field is a sight! Now, rye and corn! They're lovely from beginning to end."
Jonathan ruminated61. "I seem to see myself expressing these ideas to Hiram," he remarked dryly.
"I suppose it all comes down to the simple question, What is the farm for?" I said.
"I am afraid that is what Hiram would think," said Jonathan.
"Never mind about Hiram," I said severely62. "Now really, away down deep, haven't you yourself a sneaking63 desire for—oh, for crops, and for having things look shipshape, as you call it? Now, haven't you?"
"I wonder," said Jonathan, as though we were talking about a third person.
"I don't wonder; I know. The trouble with[Pg 102] men," I went on, "is that when they want to make a thing look well, all they can think of is cutting and chopping. Look at a man when he goes to a party, or to have his picture taken! He always dashes to the barber's first—that is, unless there's a woman around to interfere64. Do you remember Jack65 Mason when he was married? Face and neck the color of raw beef from sunburn, and hair cropped so close it made his head look like a drab egg!"
"I didn't notice," said Jonathan.
"No, I suppose not. You would have done the same thing—you're all alike. Look at horses! When men want to make a horse look stylish66, why, chop off his tail, of course! And they are only beginning to learn better. When a man builds a house, what does he do? Cuts down every tree, every bush and twig39, and makes it 'shipshape,' as you call it. And then the women have to come along and plant everything all over again."
"But things need cutting now and then," said Jonathan. "You wouldn't like it, you know, if a man never went to the barber's. He'd look like a woodchuck."[Pg 103]
"There are worse-looking things than woodchucks. Still, of course, there's a medium. Possibly the woodchuck carries neglect to excess."
The discussion rested there. I do not know whether Jonathan expressed any of these ideas to Hiram, but the grooming67 process appeared to be temporarily suspended. Then one day my turn came. It was dusk, and I was sitting on an old log at the back of the orchard, looking out over the little swamp, all a-twinkle with fireflies. Jonathan had been up the lane, prowling about, as he often does at nightfall, "to take a look at the farm." I heard his step in the lane, and he jumped over the bars at the far end of the orchard. There was a pause, then a vehement68 exclamation—too vehement to print. Jonathan's remarks do not usually need editing, and I listened to these in the dusk in some degree of wonder, if not of positive enjoyment69.
Finally I called out, "What's the matter?"
"Oh! You there?" He strode over. "Matter! Come and see what that fool hobo did."
"You called him something besides that a moment ago," I remarked.[Pg 104]
"I hope so. Whatever I called him, he's it. Come over."
He led me to the orchard edge, and there in the half light I saw a line of stubs and a pile of brush.
"Not your quince bushes!" I gasped70.
"Just that," he said, grimly, and then burst into further unprintable phrases descriptive of the city-bred loafer. "If I ever give work to a hobo again, I'll be—"
"Sh-h-h," I said; and I could not forbear adding, "Now you know how I have felt about those huckleberry bushes and birches and things, only I hadn't the language to express it."
"You have language enough," said Jonathan.
Undoubtedly71 Jonathan was depressed72. I had been depressed for some time on account of the grooming of my berry patches and fence lines, but now I found myself growing suddenly cheerful. I do not habitually73 batten on the sorrow of others, but this was a special case. For how could I be blind to the fact that chance had thrust a weapon into my hand? I knew that hereafter, at critical moments,[Pg 105] I need only murmur74 "quince bushes" and discussion would die out. It made me feel very gentle towards Jonathan, to be thus armed against him. Gentle, but also cheerful.
"Jonathan," I said, "it's no use standing75 here. Come back to the log where I was sitting."
He came, with heavy tread. We sat down, and looked out over the twinkling swamp. The hay had just been cut, and the air was richly fragrant76. The hush77 of night encompassed78 us, yet the darkness was full of life. Crickets chirruped steadily79 in the orchard behind us. From a distant meadow the purring whistle of the whip-poor-will sounded in continuous cadence80, like a monotonous81 and gentle lullaby. The woods beyond the open swamp, a shadowy blur82 against the sky, were still, except for a sleepy note now and then from some bird half-awakened. Once a wood thrush sang his daytime song all through, and murmured part of it a second time, then sank into silence.
"Jonathan," I said at last, "the farm is rather a good place to be."
"Not bad."
"Let's not groom5 it too much. Let's not make it too shipshape. After all, you know, it isn't really a ship."
"Nor yet a woodchuck, I hope," said Jonathan.
And I was content not to press the matter.
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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accretion
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| n.自然的增长，增加物 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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chestnut
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canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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sheared
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| v.剪羊毛( shear的过去式和过去分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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