MY NEIGHBORS FIELD 



stumps of them along the streamside show, 

 and it would seem their secret purpose 

 to regain their old footing. Now and 

 then some seedling escapes the devastating 

 sheep a rod or two down-stream. Since I 

 came to live by the field one of these has 

 tiptoed above the gully of the creek, beck- 

 oning the procession from the hills, as if 

 in fact they would make back toward that 

 skyward-pointing finger of granite on the 

 opposite range, from which, according to 

 the legend, when they were bad Indians 

 and it a great chief, they ran away. This 

 year the summer floods brought the round, 

 brown, fruitful cones to my very door, and 

 I look, if I live long enough, to see them 

 come up greenly in my neighbor's field. 



It is interesting to watch this retaking 

 of old ground by the wild plants, banished 

 by human use. Since Naboth drew his 



