224 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



quays, and that have absorbed the odors of the hay 

 and grain until they look ripe and mellow and full 

 of the pleasing sentiment of the great, sturdy, 

 bountiful interior! The "big beam" has become 

 smooth and polished from the hay that has been 

 pitched over it, and the sweaty, sturdy forms that 

 have crossed it. One feels that he would like a 

 piece of furniture — a chair, or a table, or a writing- 

 desk, a bedstead, or a wainscoting — made from 

 these long-seasoned, long-tried, richly-toned timbers 

 of the old barn. But the smart- painted, natty barn 

 that follows the humbler structure, with its glazed 

 windows, its ornamented ventilator and gilded wea- 

 ther vane, — who cares to contemplate it 1 The 

 wise human eye loves modesty and humility; loves 

 plain, simple structures; loves the unpainted barn 

 that took no thought of itself, or the dwelling that 

 looks inward and not outward ; is offended when the 

 farm-buildings get above their business and aspire 

 to be something on their own account, suggesting, 

 not cattle and crops and plain living, but the vani- 

 ties of the town and the pride of dress and equipage. 

 Indeed, the picturesque in human affairs and 

 occupations is always born of love and humility, as 

 it is in art or literature; and it quickly takes to 

 itself wings and flies away at the advent of pride, 

 or any selfish or unworthy motive. The more di- 

 rectly the farm savors of the farmer, the more the 

 fields and buildings are redolent of human care and 

 toil, without any thought of the passer-by, the more 

 we delight in the contemplation of it. 



