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1Meanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to be
2hoed, for the earliest had grown considerably before the latest were in the ground; indeed they were not easily to be
3put off. What was the meaning of this so steady and self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to
4love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted. They attached me to the earth, and so I got strength like
5Antæus. But why should I raise them? Only Heaven knows. This was my curious labor all summer,--to make this portion of
6the earth's surface, which had yielded only cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and the like, before, sweet wild fruits
7and pleasant flowers, produce instead this pulse. What shall I learn of beans or beans of me? I cherish them, I hoe
8them, 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
9auxiliaries are the dews and rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself, which for the
10most part is lean and effete. My enemies are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks. The last have nibbled for me
11a quarter of an acre clean. But what right had I to oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient herb garden?
12Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new foes. When I was four years
13old, as I well remember, I was brought from Boston to this my native town, through these very woods and this field, to
14the pond. It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory. And now to-night my flute has waked the echoes over that
15very water. The pines still stand here older than I; or, if some have fallen, I have cooked my supper with their stumps,
16and a new growth is rising all around, preparing another aspect for new infant eyes. Almost the same johnswort springs
17from the same perennial root in this pasture, and even I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of my
18infant dreams, and one of the results of my presence and influence is seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato
19vines. I planted about two acres and a half of upland; and as it was only about fifteen years since the land was
20cleared, 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
21summer it appeared by the arrowheads which I turned up in hoeing, that an extinct nation had anciently dwelt here and
22planted corn and beans ere white men came to clear the land, and so, to some extent, had exhausted the soil for this
23very crop. Before yet any woodchuck or squirrel had run across the road, or the sun had got above the shrub oaks, while
24all the dew was on, though the farmers warned me against it,--I would advise you to do all your work if possible while
25the dew is on,--I began to level the ranks of haughty weeds in my bean-field and throw dust upon their heads. Early in
26the morning I worked barefooted, dabbling like a plastic artist in the dewy and crumbling sand, but later in the day the
27sun blistered my feet. There the sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing slowly backward and forward over that yellow
28gravelly upland, between the long green rows, fifteen rods, the one end terminating in a shrub oak copse where I could
29rest in the shade, the other in a blackberry field where the green berries deepened their tints by the time I had made
30another bout. Removing the weeds, putting fresh soil about the bean stems, and encouraging this weed which I had sown,
31making the yellow soil express its summer thought in bean leaves and blossoms rather than in wormwood and piper and
32millet grass, making the earth say beans instead of grass,--this was my daily work. As I had little aid from horses or
33cattle, or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry, I was much slower, and became much more intimate with
34my beans than usual. But labor of the hands, even when pursued to the verge of drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form
35of idleness. It has a constant and imperishable moral, and to the scholar it yields a classic result. A very agricola
36laboriosus was I to travellers bound westward through Lincoln and Wayland to nobody knows where; they sitting at their
37ease in gigs, with elbows on knees, and reins loosely hanging in festoons; I the home-staying, laborious native of the
38soil. But soon my homestead was out of their sight and thought. It was the only open and cultivated field for a great
39distance on either side of the road; so they made the most of it; and sometimes the man in the field heard more of
40travellers' gossip and comment than was meant for his ear: "Beans so late! peas so late!"--for I continued to plant when
41others had begun to hoe,--the ministerial husbandman had not suspected it. "Corn, my boy, for fodder; corn for fodder."
42"Does he live there?" asks the black bonnet of the gray coat; and the hard-featured farmer reins up his grateful dobbin
43to inquire what you are doing where he sees no manure in the furrow, and recommends a little chip dirt, or any little
44waste 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
45two hands to draw it,--there being an aversion to other carts and horses,--and chip dirt far away. Fellow-travellers as
46they rattled by compared it aloud with the fields which they had passed, so that I came to know how I stood in the
47agricultural world. This was one field not in Mr. Coleman's report. And, by the way, who estimates the value of the crop
48which nature yields in the still wilder fields unimproved by man? The crop of English hay is carefully weighed, the
49moisture calculated, the silicates and the potash; but in all dells and pond holes in the woods and pastures and swamps
50grows a rich and various crop only unreaped by man. Mine was, as it were, the connecting link between wild and
51cultivated fields; as some states are civilized, and others half-civilized, and others savage or barbarous, so my field
52was, though not in a bad sense, a half-cultivated field. They were beans cheerfully returning to their wild and
53primitive state that I cultivated, and my hoe played the Ranz des Vaches for them. Near at hand, upon the topmost spray
54of a birch, sings the brown-thrasher--or red mavis, as some love to call him--all the morning, glad of your society,
55that would find out another farmer's field if yours were not here. While you are planting the seed, he cries,--"Drop it,
56drop 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
57such enemies as he. You may wonder what his rigmarole, his amateur Paganini performances on one string or on twenty,
58have to do with your planting, and yet prefer it to leached ashes or plaster. It was a cheap sort of top dressing in
59which I had entire faith.
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