IV 

 A WALK IN THE FIELDS 



LET us go and walk in the fields. It is the 

 middle of a very early March — a March that 

 has in some way cut out April and got into its place. 

 I knew an Irish laborer, who during his last 

 illness thought, when spring came, if he could walk 

 in the fields, he would get well. I have observed 

 that farmers, when harassed by trouble, or weighed 

 down by grief, are often wont to go and walk alone 

 in the fields. They find dumb sympathy and com- 

 panionship there. I knew a farmer who, after the 

 death of his only son, would frequently get up in 

 the middle of the night and go and walk in his 

 fields. It was said that he had been harsh and un- 

 just to his son, and, during the last day the latter 

 had worked and when the fatal illness was coming 

 upon him, the father had severely upbraided him 

 because he left his task and sat for a while under 

 the fence. One can fancy him going to this very 

 spot in his midnight wanderings, and standing in 

 mute agony where the cruel words had been spoken, 

 or throwing himself upon the ground, pleading in 

 vain at the door of the irrevocable past. That door 

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