BAKER FARM. 
223 
make their port so; therefore I suppose they still take 
life bravely, after their fashion, face to face, giving it 
tooth and nail, not having skill to split its massive col¬ 
umns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in de¬ 
tail;—thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should 
handle a thistle. But they fight at an overwhelming 
disadvantage,—living, John Field, alas! without arith¬ 
metic, and failing so. 
“ Do you ever fish ? ” I asked. “ 0 yes, I catch a 
mess now and then when I am lying by; good perch I 
catch.” “ What’s your bait ? ” “I catch shiners with 
fish-worms, and bait the perch with them.” “ You’d 
better go now, John,” said his wife with glistening and 
hopeful face; but John demurred. 
The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the 
eastern woods promised a fair evening; so I took my 
departure. When I had got without I asked for a dish, 
hoping to get a sight of the well bottom, to complete my 
survey of the premises; but there, alas! are shallows * 
and quicksands, and rope broken withal, and bucket ir¬ 
recoverable. Meanwhile the right culinary vessel was 
selected, water was seemingly distilled, and after consul¬ 
tation and long delay passed out to the thirsty one,—not 
yet suffered to cool, not yet to settle. Such gruel sus¬ 
tains life here, I thought; so, shutting my eyes, and ex¬ 
cluding the motes by a skilfully directed under-current, 
I drank to genuine hospitality the heartiest draught I 
could. I am not squeamish in such cases when man¬ 
ners are concerned. 
As I was leaving the Irishman’s roof after the rain, 
bending my steps again to the pond, my haste to catch 
pickerel, wading in retired meadows, in sloughs and 
bog-holes, in forlorn and savage places, appeared for an 
