A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



eler also. One's own landscape comes in 

 time to be a sort of outlying part of himself ; 

 he has sowed himself broadcast upon it, and 

 it reflects his own moods and feelings ; he 

 is sensitive to the verge of the horizon : cut 

 those trees, and he bleeds ; mar those hills, 

 and he suffers. How has the farmer planted 

 himself in his fields ; builded himself into 

 his stone walls, and evoked the sympathy of 

 the hills by his struggle ! This home feel- 

 ing, this domestication of nature, is impor- 

 tant to the observer. This is the bird-lime 

 with which he catches the bird ; this is the 

 private door that admits him behind the 

 scenes. This is one source of Gilbert White's 

 charm, and of the charm of Thoreau's 

 "Walden." 



The birds that come about one's door in 

 winter, or that build in his trees in summer, 

 what a peculiar interest they have ! What 

 crop have I sowed in Florida or in California, 

 that I should go there to reap .' I should 

 be only a visitor, or formal caller upon na- 

 ture, and the family would all wear masks. 

 No ; the place to observe nature is where 

 you are ; the walk to take to-day is the walk 

 you took yesterday. You will not find just 

 the same things : both the observed and the 



