As I walked
down the lane I heard the soft tinkle of a cowbell, a certain earthy
exhalation, as of work, came out of the bare fields, the duties of my
daily life crowded upon me bringing a pleasant calmness of spirit, and I
said to myself:
"Lord be praised for that which is common."
And after I had done my chores I came in, hungry, to my supper.
IV
ON BEING WHERE YOU BELONG
Sunday Morning, May 20th.
On Friday I began planting my corn. For many days previously I went out
every morning at sun-up, in the clear, sharp air, and thrust my hand
deep down in the soil of the field. I do not know that I followed any
learned agricultural rule, but somehow I liked to do it. It has seemed
reasonable to me, instead of watching for a phase of the moon (for I do
not cultivate the moon), to inquire of the earth itself. For many days I
had no response; the soil was of an icy, moist coldness, as of death.
"I am not ready yet," it said; "I have not rested my time."
Early in the week we had a day or two of soft sunshine, of fecund
warmth, to which the earth lay open, willing, passive. On Thursday
morning, though a white frost silvered the harrow ridges, when I thrust
my hand into the soil I felt, or seemed to feel, a curious response: a
strange answering of life to life.
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