At first, as I said, I stopped my work, or loitered as I walked, in order to see, or hear, or smell—­and do so still, for I have entered only the antechamber of the treasure-house; but as I learned better the modest technic of these arts I found that the practice of them went well with the common tasks of the garden or farm, especially with those that were more or less monotonous, like cultivating corn, hoeing potatoes, and the like.

The air is just as full of good sights and good odours for the worker as for the idler, and it depends only upon the awareness, the aliveness, of our own spirits whether we toil like dumb animals or bless our labouring hours with the beauty of life.  Such enjoyment and a growing command of our surroundings are possible, after a little practice, without taking much of that time we call so valuable and waste so sinfully.  “I haven’t time,” says the farmer, the banker, the professor, with a kind of disdain for the spirit of life, when, as a matter of fact, he has all the time there is, all that anybody has—­to wit, this moment, this great and golden moment!—­but knows not how to employ it.  He creeps when he might walk, walks when he might run, runs when he might fly—­and lives like a woodchuck in the dark body of himself.

Why, there are men in this valley who scout the idea that farming, carpentry, merchantry, are anything but drudgery, defend all the evils known to humankind with the argument that “a man must live,” and laugh at any one who sees beauty or charm in being here, in working with the hands, or, indeed, in just living!  While they think of themselves cannily as “practical” men, I think them the most impractical men I know, for in a world full of boundless riches they remain obstinately poor.  They are unwilling to invest even a few of their dollars unearned in the real wealth of the earth.  For it is only the sense of the spirit of life, whether in nature or in other human beings, that lifts men above the beasts and curiously leads them to God, who is the spirit both of beauty and of friendliness.  I say truly, having now reached the point in my life where it seems to me I care only for writing that which is most deeply true for me, that I rarely walk in my garden or upon the hills of an evening without thinking of God.  It is in my garden that all things become clearer to me, even that miracle whereby one who has offended may still see God; and this I think a wonderful thing.  In my garden I understand dimly why evil is in the world, and in my garden learn how transitory it is.

Just now I have come in from work, and will note freshly one of the best odours I have had to-day.  As I was working in the corn, a lazy breeze blew across the meadows from the west, and after loitering a moment among the blackberry bushes sought me out where I was busiest.  Do you know the scent of the blackberry?  Almost all the year round it is a treasure-house of odours, even when the leaves first come out; but it