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The farmer says, "Next year I will raise a crop of 

 rye"; and he proceeds to clear away the brush, and 

 either plows it, or, if it is too uneven or stony, burns 

 and harrows it only, and scatters the seed with faith. 

 And all winter the earth keeps his secret, — unless 

 it did leak out somewhat in the fall, — and in the 

 spring this early green on the hillsides betrays him. 

 When I see this luxuriant crop spreading far and 

 wide in spite of rock and bushes and unevenness of 

 ground, I cannot help thinking that it must have been 

 unexpected by the farmer himself, and regarded by 

 him as a lucky accident for which to thank fortune. 



Journal, ii, 293, 294. 



