THE BEAN-EIELD. 
169 
most of all woodchucks. The last have nibbled for me 
a quarter of an acre clean. But what right had I to 
oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient 
herb garden? Soon, however, the remaining beans 
will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new 
foes. 
When I was four years old, as I well remember, 
I was brought from Boston to this my native town, 
through these very woods and this field, to the pond. 
It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory. 
And now to-night my flute has waked the echoes over 
that very water. The pines still stand here older than 
I; or, if some have fallen, I have cooked my supper with 
their stumps, and a new growth is rising all around, pre¬ 
paring another aspect for new infant eyes. Almost the 
same johnswort springs from the same perennial root in 
this pasture, and even I have at length helped to clothe 
that fabulous landscape of my infant dreams, and one 
of the results of my presence and influence is seen in 
these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines. 
I planted about two acres and a half of upland; and 
as it was only about fifteen years since the land was 
cleared, and I myself had got out two or three cords 
of stumps, I did not give it any manure; but in the 
course of the summer it appeared by the arrow-heads 
which I turned up in hoeing, that an extinct nation had 
anciently dwelt here and planted corn and beans ere 
white men came to clear the land, and so, to some ex¬ 
tent, had exhausted the soil for this very crop. 
Before yet any woodchuck or squirrel had run 
across the road, or the sun had got above the shrub- 
oaks, while all the dew was on, though the farmers 
warned me against it, — I would advise you to do all 
