A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



of the power and mystery of nature shall 

 spring up as fully in one's heart after he 

 has made the circuit of his own field as after 

 returning from a voyage round the world. 

 I sit here amid the junipers of the Hudson, 

 with purpose every year to go to Florida, or 

 to the West Indies, or to the Pacific coast, 

 yet the seasons pass and I am still loitering, 

 with a half-defined suspicion, perhaps, that, 

 if I remain quiet and keep a sharp lookout, 

 these countries will come to me. I may 

 stick it out yet, and not miss much after all. 

 The great trouble is for Mohammed to know 

 when the mountain really comes to him. 

 Sometimes a rabbit or a jay or a little war- 

 bler brings the woods to my door. A loon 

 on the river, and the Canada lakes are here ; 

 the sea-gulls and the fish hawk bring the 

 sea ; the call of the wild gander at night, 

 what does it suggest .' and the eagle flapping 

 by, or floating along on a raft of ice, does 

 not he bring the mountain.'' One spring 

 morning five swans flew above my barn in 

 single file, going northward, — an express 

 train bound for Labrador. It was a more 

 exhilarating sight than if I had seen them 

 in their native haunts. They made a breeze 

 in my mind, like a noble passage in a poem. 

 i8o 



