A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



whither you go ? What brings you to port 

 here, you gossamer ship sailing the great 

 sea ? How exquisitely frail and delicate ! 

 One of the lightest things in nature; so 

 light that in the closed room here it will 

 hardly rest in my open palm. A feather is 

 a clod beside it. Only a spider's web will 

 hold it ; coarser objects have no power over 

 it. Caught in the upper currents of the air 

 and rising above the clouds, it might sail 

 perpetually. Indeed, one fancies it might 

 almost traverse the interstellar ether and 

 drive against the stars. And every thistle- 

 head by the roadside holds hundreds of 

 these sky rovers, imprisoned Ariels un- 

 able to set themselves free. Their libera- 

 tion may be by the shock of the wind, or 

 the rude contact of cattle, but it is oftener 

 the work of the goldfinch with its complain- 

 ing brood. The seed of the thistle is the 

 proper food of this bird, and in obtaining it 

 myriads of these winged creatures are scat- 

 tered to the breeze. Each one is fraught 

 with a seed which it exists to sow, but its 

 wild careering and soaring does not fairly 

 begin till its burden is dropped, and its 

 spheral form is complete. The seeds of 

 many plants and trees are disseminated 

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