| Sometimes I rambled to pine groves, standing like temples, or like fleets at sea, full-rigged, with wavy boughs, and rippling with light, so soft and green and shady that the Druids would have forsaken their oaks to worship in them; or to the cedar wood beyond Flint's Pond, where the trees, covered with hoary blue berries, spiring higher and higher, are fit to stand before Valhalla, and the creeping juniper covers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to swamps where the usnea lichen hangs in festoons from the white spruce trees, and toadstools, round tables of the swamp gods, cover the ground, and more beautiful fungi adorn the stumps, like butterflies or shells, vegetable winkles; where the swamp-pink and dogwood grow, the red alder berry glows like eyes of imps, the waxwork grooves and crushes the hardest woods in its folds, and the wild holly berries make the beholder forget his home with their beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless other wild forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste. Instead of calling on some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees, of kinds which are rare in this neighborhood, standing far away in the middle of some pasture, or in the depths of a wood or swamp, or on a hilltop; such as the black birch, of which we have some handsome specimens two feet in diameter; its cousin, the yellow birch, with its loose golden vest, perfumed like the first; the beech, which has so neat a bole and beautifully lichen-painted, perfect in all its details, of which, excepting scattered specimens, I know but one small grove of sizable trees left in the township, supposed by some to have been planted by the pigeons that were once baited with beechnuts near by; it is worth the while to see the silver grain sparkle when you split this wood; the bass; the hornbeam; the Celtis occidentalis, or false elm, of which we have but one well-grown; some taller mast of a pine, a shingle tree, or a more perfect hemlock than usual, standing like a pagoda in the midst of the woods; and many others I could mention. These were the shrines I visited both summer and winter. |
"Baker Farm" does not link to previous or subsequent chapters.
Thoreau places material in the first two paragraphs which does not directly relate to his purpose, which is typical for him. However, here the description of these activities support his argument later on. This chapter is tightly focused on his theme.
Thoreau begins by mentioning all the magical places that he has found within his woods, places that would tempt the Druids to abandon their forests (the Druids were ancient Celts who worshiped the oak tree) and trees worthy of Valhalla, the Norse afterworld for the heroes.
He calls these places "shrines," and since we know that his religious beliefs are non-conventional, mystical, and pantheistic, we know that he is not being entirely metaphorical in his use of this word. A good bit of his life, at least four hours every day, is devoted to finding and appreciating those wonderful times and places in Nature.
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| I set out one afternoon to go a-fishing to Fair Haven, through the woods, to eke out my scanty fare of vegetables. My way led through Pleasant Meadow, an adjunct of the Baker Farm, that retreat of which a poet has since sung, beginning, --
"Thy entry is a pleasant field,
Which some mossy fruit trees yield
Partly to a ruddy brook,
By gliding musquash undertook,
And mercurial trout,
Darting about."
I thought of living there before I went to Walden. I "hooked" the apples, leaped the brook, and scared the musquash and the trout. It was one of those afternoons which seem indefinitely long before one, in which many events may happen, a large portion of our natural life, though it was already half spent when I started. By the way there came up a shower, which compelled me to stand half an hour under a pine, piling boughs over my head, and wearing my handkerchief for a shed; and when at length I had made one cast over the pickerelweed, standing up to my middle in water, I found myself suddenly in the shadow of a cloud, and the thunder began to rumble with such emphasis that I could do no more than listen to it. The gods must be proud, thought I, with such forked flashes to rout a poor unarmed fisherman. So I made haste for shelter to the nearest hut, which stood half a mile from any road, but so much the nearer to the pond, and had long been uninhabited: --
And here a poet builded,
In the completed years,
For behold a trivial cabin
That to destruction steers."
So the Muse fables. But therein, as I found, dwelt now John Field, an Irishman, and his wife, and several children, from the broad-faced boy who assisted his father at his work, and now came running by his side from the bog to escape the rain, to the wrinkled, sibyl-like, cone-headed infant that sat upon its father's knee as in the palaces of nobles, and looked out from its home in the midst of wet and hunger inquisitively upon the stranger, with the privilege of infancy, not knowing but it was the last of a noble line, and the hope and cynosure of the world, instead of John Field's poor starveling brat. There we sat together under that part of the roof which leaked the least, while it showered and thundered without. I had sat there many times of old before the ship was built that floated his family to America. An honest, hard-working, but shiftless man plainly was John Field; and his wife, she too was brave to cook so many successive dinners in the recesses of that lofty stove; with round greasy face and bare breast, still thinking to improve her condition one day; with the never absent mop in one hand, and yet no effects of it visible anywhere. The chickens, which had also taken shelter here from the rain, stalked about the room like members of the family, too humanized, methought, to roast well. They stood and looked in my eye or pecked at my shoe significantly. Meanwhile my host told me his story, how hard he worked "bogging" for a neighboring farmer, turning up a meadow with a spade or bog hoe at the rate of ten dollars an acre and the use of the land with manure for one year, and his little broad-faced son worked cheerfully at his father's side the while, not knowing how poor a bargain the latter had made. I tried to help him with my experience, telling him that he was one of my nearest neighbors, and that I too, who came a-fishing here, and looked like a loafer, was getting my living like himself; that I lived in a tight, light, and clean house, which hardly cost more than the annual rent of such a ruin as his commonly amounts to; and how, if he chose, he might in a month or two build himself a palace of his own; that I did not use tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor milk, nor fresh meat, and so did not have to work to get them; again, as I did not work hard, I did not have to eat hard, and it cost me but a trifle for my food; but as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter, and milk, and beef, he had to work hard to pay for them, and when he had worked hard he had to eat hard again to repair the waste of his system -- and so it was as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader than it was long, for he was discontented and wasted his life into the bargain; and yet he had rated it as a gain in coming to America, that here you could get tea, and coffee, and meat every day. But the only true America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the use of such things. For I purposely talked to him as if he were a philosopher, or desired to be one. I should be glad if all the meadows on the earth were left in a wild state, if that were the consequence of men's beginning to redeem themselves. A man will not need to study history to find out what is best for his own culture. But alas! the culture of an Irishman is an enterprise to be undertaken with a sort of moral bog hoe. I told him, that as he worked so hard at bogging, he required thick boots and stout clothing, which yet were soon soiled and worn out, but I wore light shoes and thin clothing, which cost not half so much, though he might think that I was dressed like a gentleman (which, however, was not the case), and in an hour or two, without labor, but as a recreation, I could, if I wished, catch as many fish as I should want for two days, or earn enough money to support me a week. If he and his family would live simply, they might all go a-huckleberrying in the summer for their amusement. John heaved a sigh at this, and his wife stared with arms a-kimbo, and both appeared to be wondering if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or arithmetic enough to carry it through. It was sailing by dead reckoning to them, and they saw not clearly how to 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 columns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in detail; -- thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should handle a thistle. But they fight at an overwhelming disadvantage -- living, John Field, alas! without arithmetic, and failing so. |
The bulk of the story is found in this rather long paragraph, broken by poetry from Ellery Channing's "Baker Farm."
An odd detail to me is his seeking shelter from the rain twice, while fishing up to his middle in water, although the second time, he is perhaps more influenced by the lightning.
Even though John Field (a pseudonym?) is a hard working man, Thoreau calls him shiftless because he cannot change his own way of doing things. He is like his wife, who always has the mop in hand but always has a dirty floor nonetheless. For example, although the house he is living in is far from satisfactory, with its leaky roof, John would rather pay rent than build his own.
I was explaining to a logger back in the mid-80's about how I had built my own place and how little it had cost me, and he replied that he couldn't afford to do that because he had an income of only $10,000 a year and a family to feed. But the fact that he had a small income made it all the more important for him to build his own place and free himself from the burden of monthly rent.
In the same way, Thoreau points out to the man that he could build his own place very cheaply, and by raising his own food, by not purchasing expensive meat, tea, coffee, and butter, and by avoiding the cost of work clothing, he could live a very satisfactory and healthy life without having to spend all of his time working for others.
Although the goal of John Field in coming to America was to be able to purchase a few luxuries, Thoreau tells him that by giving up those few luxuries, he can have a much more important treasure, a free and independent life.
Although most people are much more educated than John Field, they fail to understand that they don't have to spend their lives working at jobs they hate but can free themselves by taking responsibility for their own lives. By buying a small piece of land, building a small home, growing much of their own food and avoiding expensive foods, and using bicycles for transportation, they can reduce their monthly expenditures to very little, yet still live a comfortable and enjoyable life.
In with the economic argument, Thoreau adds the point that by living a simple life, one avoids the necessity of supporting the war in Mexico, the slave trade, and "other superfluous expenses," which are encouraged by our love of luxuries.
In today's world, we can plainly trace many world problems to our dependence on luxuries which we would be better off without. Our dependence on coffee, tea, and chocolate and other luxury foods has resulted in the wealthy buying up all the land in the third world and exploiting the poor to harvest the crops. Our use of tobacco products has been responsible for misuse of the soil and remains responsible for many deaths from heart disease and cancer. Our dependence on automobiles has caused global warming, pollution, a stressful lifestyle, an unlovely environment, recessions, and wars. Our use of electricity has resulted in local environmental damage due to coal mining and dam building, plus global warming, and harmful effects of acid rain, especially on forests and lakes. Our desire for fine houses and a daily newpaper has resulted in the destruction of vast forests. This damage is often invisible, as we can only see the world as it is and not as it once was and ought to be.
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From my first reading of Walden, "Baker Farm" has been one of my favorite chapters. All of Walden is an explanation of Thoreau's philosophy of life, but here he gets the chance to explain his lifestyle to a poor family who could directly profit from it. Thus, he explains how he lives very simply and practically. However, the message is ignored, as the family is content with following customs rather than thinking out new solutions.
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