6 My Little Farm 



writing, writing, I had produced little or nothing 

 for more than a day's notice, though feeling that 

 I could do something better. I wanted to write, 

 really, in books, what I thought, instead of 

 writing, in newspapers, what other people pre- 

 tended to think. What if the plough should give 

 the pen its opportunity ? I might have to put 

 up with plainer cooking and poorer company, but 

 possibly compensated by better health and the 

 treasure of loneliness. I might even have at 

 times to do some of the farm work with my own 

 white hands. What matter if it stopped the 

 grinding of an immortal soul for the money value 

 in moral dust ? 



It was the little farm that wrote the books, and 

 such was the necessity which set me astride of two 

 islands, in pursuit of two professions, contrary to 

 all prudent counsel ; but the best that I have done 

 is due to the audacity of the decision. I know this 

 now, though it was not easy to see then. Yet 

 when the battle is won, we ought to be thankful 

 that our will in daring is so mercifully adjusted 

 to our capacity in doing. A little out of fit, and 

 we either miss what we could do or go to bits in 

 reaching what is beyond us. The nicety of the 

 balance, in its terrible, silent play between tragedy 

 and triumph, is one of the mysteries of our 

 existence. There is only one rule in the matter, 

 and it is not always safe : better lose by courage, 

 than by fear. In the one case, you end either as 

 a man or as a corpse ; in the other case, you are 

 morally dead from the beginning. 



