in these times that most of the airy flying things of this beautiful
world come home to us--things that heavy-footed reason never quite
overtakes, nor stodgy knowledge ever knows. I think sometimes (as Sterne
says) we thus intercept thoughts never intended for us at all, or
uncover strange primitive memories of older times than these--racial
memories.

At any rate, the hours pass and suddenly the mind comes home again, it
comes home from its wanderings refreshed, stimulated, happy. And
nowhere, whether in cities, or travelling in trains, or sailing upon the
sea, have I so often felt this curious enrichment as I have upon this
hillside, working alone in field, or garden, or orchard, It seems to
come up out of the soil, or respond to the touch of growing things.

What makes any work interesting is the fact that one can make
experiments, try new things, develop specialties and _grow_. And where
can he do this with such success as on the land and in direct contact
with nature. The possibilities are here infinite new machinery,
spraying, seed testing, fertilizers, experimentation with new varieties.
A thousand and one methods, all creative, which may be tried out in that
great essential struggle of the farmer or gardener to command all the
forces of nature.

Because there are farmers, and many of them, who do not experiment and
do not grow, but make their occupation a veritable black drudgery, this
is no reason for painting a sombre-hued picture of country life. Any
calling, the law, the ministry, the medical profession, can be blasted
by fixing one's eyes only upon its ugliest aspects. And farming, at its
best, has become a highly scientific, extraordinarily absorbing, and
when all is said, a profitable, profession. Neighbours of mine have