oon find thee by other
lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home. There are no
larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played.
Grow wild according to thy nature, like these sedges and brakes, which
will never become English bay. Let the thunder rumble; what if it
threaten ruin to farmers' crops? That is not its errand to thee. Take
shelter under the cloud, while they flee to carts and sheds. Let not
to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the land, but own it
not. Through want of enterprise and faith men are where they are, buying
and selling, and spending their lives like serfs.

O Baker Farm!
"Landscape where the richest element
Is a little sunshine innocent."...
"No one runs to revel
On thy rail-fenced lea."...
"Debate with no man hast thou,
With questions art never perplexed,
As tame at the first sight as now,
In thy plain russet gabardine dressed."...
"Come ye who love,
And ye who hate,
Children of the Holy Dove,
And Guy Faux of the state,
And hang conspiracies
From the tough rafters of the trees!"

Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where
their household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes
its own breath over again; their shadows, morning and evening, reach
farther than their daily steps. We should come home from far, from
adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience
and character.

Before I had reached the pond some fresh impulse had brought out John
Field, with altered mind, letting go "bogging" ere this sunset. But he,
poor man, disturbed only a couple of fins while I was catching a fair
string, and he said it was his luck; but when we changed seats in the
boat luck changed seats too. Poor John Field!--I trust he does not read
this, unless he will improve by it--thinking to live by some derivative
old-country mode in this primitive new country--to catch perch with
shiners. It is good bait sometimes, I allow. With his horizon all
his own, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish
poverty or poor life, his Adam's grandmother and boggy ways, not to
rise in this world, he nor his posterity, till their wading webbed
bog-trotting fee