thing to watch the cherries and plum trees come into blossom, with
us about the first of May, while all the remainder of the orchard seems
still sleeping. It is a fine thing to see the cattle turned for the
first time in spring into the green meadows. It is a fine thing--one of
the finest of all--to see and smell the rain in a corn-field after weeks
of drought. How it comes softly out of gray skies, the first drops
throwing up spatters of dust and losing themselves in the dry soil. Then
the clouds sweep forward up the valley, darkening the meadows and
blotting out the hills, and then there is the whispering of the rain as
it first sweeps across the corn-field. At once what a stir of life! What
rustling of the long green leaves. What joyful shaking and swaying of
the tassels! And have you watched how eagerly the grooved leaves catch
the early drops, and, lest there be too little rain after all, conduct
them jealously down the stalks where they will soonest reach the thirsty
roots? What a fine thing is this to see!

One who thus takes part in the whole process of the year comes soon to
have an indescribable affection for his land, his garden, his animals.
There are thoughts of his in every tree: memories in every fence corner.
Just now, the fourth of June, I walked down past my blackberry patch,
now come gorgeously into full white bloom--and heavy with fragrance. I
set out these plants with my own hands, I have fed them, cultivated
them, mulched them, pruned them, trellised them, and helped every year
to pick the berries. How could they be otherwise than full of
associations! They bear a fruit more beautiful than can be found in any
catalogue: and stranger and wilder than in any learned botany book!

Why, one who comes thus to love a bit of countryside may enjoy it all
the year round. When he awakens in the middle of a long winter night he
may send his mind out to the snowy fields--I've done it a thousand
times!--and visit each part in turn, stroll through the orchard and pay
his respects to each tree--in a small orchard one comes to know
familiarly every tree as he knows his friends--stop at the strawberry
bed, consider the grape trellises, feel himself opening the door of the
warm, dark stable and listening to the welcoming whicker of his horses,
or visiting his cows, his pigs, his sheep, his hens, or so many of them
as he may have.

So much of the best in the world seems to have come fragrant out of
fields, gardens,