What have I to do with plows? I cut another furrow than you see. Where the off ox treads, there is it not, it is farther off; where the nigh ox walks, it will not be, it is nigher still. If corn fails, my crop fails not. What of drought? What of rain? Is not my sand well clayed, my peat well sanded? Is it not underdrained and watered?[233] My ground is high, But 'tis not dry, What you call dew Comes filtering through; Though in the sky, It still is nigh; Its soil is blue And virgin too. * * * * * If from your price ye will not swerve, Why, then I'll think the gods reserve A greater bargain there above, Out of their sup'rabundant love Have meantime better for me cared, And so will get my stock prepared, Plows of new pattern, hoes the same, Designed a different soil to tame, And sow my seed broadcast in air, Certain to reap my harvest there. _April 8._ Friends are the ancient and honorable of the earth. The oldest men did not begin friendship. It is older than Hindostan and the Chinese Empire. How long has it been cultivated, and is still the staple article! It is a divine league struck forever. Warm, serene days only bring it out to the surface. There is a friendliness between the sun and the earth in pleasant weather; the gray content of the land is its color. * * * * * You can tell what another's suspicions are by what you feel forced to become. You will wear a new character, like a strange habit, in their presence. _April 9. Friday._ It would not be hard for some quiet brave man to leap into the saddle to-day and eclipse Napoleon's career by a grander,—show men at length the meaning of war. One reproaches himself with supineness, that he too has sat quiet in his chamber, and not treated the world to the sound of the trumpet; that the indignation which has so long rankled in his breast does not take to horse and to the field. The bravest warrior will have to fight his battles in his dreams, and no earthly war note can arouse him. There are who would not run with Leonidas. Only the third-rate Napoleons and Alexanders does history tell of. The brave man does not mind the call of the trumpet nor hear the idle clashing of swords without, for the infinite din within. War is but a training, compared with the active service of his peace. Is he not at war? Does he not resist the ocean swell within him, and walk as gently as the summer's sea? Would you have him parade in uniform, and manœuvre men, whose equanimity is his uniform and who is himself manœuvred? * * * * *