Rare Earth/Chapter 10

by Frank Owen

 

Chapter X

 

It is the love of growing things, the earth, rare earth, that makes brothers of men the world over. The Japanese grows cherry blossoms in his garden and works in the lush wet soil of the rice fields. He has a beautiful custom of bowing down in the midst of the farmland and praying to his gods to make the soil productive. He looks upon the soil as a living being. The growth of the soil to him suggests the growth of human life. Ofttimes when he wishes a child he causes his wife to lie in the fertile fields that the fertility of the soil may find an echo in her body. Chinamen love gardens. Like the Japanese they adore charming vistas and set up bridges and pagodas where the view is most superb. Willow flowers and peonies, chrysanthemum and wistaria spell enchantment to them.

There is scarcely a foot of space in China near the big cities that is not cultivated. Frequently three or four crops a year are harvested.

The Englishman considers his house incomplete if it is not framed by a garden. Holland derives vast revenues from horticulture and her bulbs are known and used the world over. Perhaps it is because the Hollanders live so close to flowers that their temperaments are so even and their country so seldom plagued with wars.

Throughout Italy grape-festivals are held at harvest time and free pure unadulterated wine flows from fountains in the public squares. All through the streets of Paris venders of flowers, particularly violets, do a thriving trade, for even in this vast city of pleasure and love, almost everyone has time to pause to buy a flower.

And so it is the world over. Unconsciously men turn to the soil. They love to have flowers about them. Even perfumes are popular because they make one think of hidden gardens. Somewhere it has been written that no house is completely furnished until the garden has been made into a living-room. It should be the most used room of a house. For there is something about a garden that brings comfort to the hearts of men. In summer a garden, in winter an open hearth. Desolate indeed is the man who cannot appreciate a country landscape, the breath-taking roll of far horizons. Somewhere Sergeant Coulson has written a verse which in sheer loveliness should rank with any Shakespearian sonnet:

"Maybe I shall not walk again
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Nor gather foxgloves in a lane
Down Somerset or Sussex way.
But though my bones, unshriven, rot
In some far-distant alien spot,
What soul I have shall rest from care,
To know the meadows still are fair
Down Dorset way, down Devon way."

To Jethro Trent, love of the soil was almost a religion. He approached the fields with reverence and humility. He hated noise, while he was in the fields. Harsh discordant sounds are nauseating. He had the odd belief that wheat grew best where it was tranquil. Wheat he loved to raise because waving in the wind it looked like a billowing rolling sea. There was something immense about those broad silent acres. He always breathed more deeply as he walked slowly through his fields. He was not pompous or in any measure conceited. Never had he been known to brag about his possessions. There was nothing vain about Jethro Trent. Nor despite his wealth did he ever cease to toil in the fields. He never felt as though those vast tracts of wheat belonged to him. Rather he felt that he belonged to the soil. It was given to him to make productive those softly rolling meadows. It was a mighty task, an important work, and he was thankful for the trust which had been placed in him. His field service was his religion. He could not have been more devout.

Elsewhere it has been told how Samuel Gage, a shiftless farmer, once stopped to talk with Jethro as he was driving by, to ask about Scobee and to proffer sympathy. Incidentally he had mentioned the sad case of Linda Joel and the tiny farm that was falling into ruin because her boy, Enoch, had been lost in the War. The chance reference had made a deep impression upon Jethro. He could not get the picture of those uncultivated fields out of his mind.

One morning he hitched up a team and drove over to Samuel Gage's place which adjoined his farm on the south. He took one of the large Virginia hams with him which it was his custom to buy in quantity direct from Smithfield. His workers had evinced a liking for this delicacy at their breakfasts and Jethro was far from niggardly in the way he treated his help. The best of victuals were none too good for men who worked in the soil. Besides it did not matter much about the cost, for Jethro no longer needed money. He had more than enough for his few simple wants.

"Just got a shipment of Virginia hams in," he told Samuel Gage, "and I thought perhaps you'd like to have one. They sent a couple more than I can use."

That was Jethro's method. Whenever he wanted a favor of anybody he paid him first. The fact that in this instance it was only a few moments' idle conversation mattered not at all. Jethro Trent accepted gifts from no man without reimbursement and usually the pay was far in excess of the service.

Samuel Gage who had been lolling in a rickety chair on his porch, basking like a beetle in the sun, was awake and alert in an instant He smacked his lips in anticipation of the culinary treat that was in store for him. "That's purty nice o' you," he said. "Purty nice."

Jethro Trent seemed slightly confused. He did not wish sympathy from any man. Nor did he wish praise or thanks. He was usually unemotional in his intercourse with his fellow men and he appreciated it when they were unemotional in return. The War had considerably disrupted the calm even stream of his life. Perhaps eventually he could get it subdued once more.

"Well," he drawled, "anyway you'll find the ham pretty nice. By the way, how's that horse getting along? Getting any fatter? Is his appetite as good as ever?"

Samuel Gage laughed heartily. He was in excellent spirits.

"Dunno," he said, scratching his head. "'At's a queer critter. Too mean, I think, to fatten up. Already it's eat up about ten acres o' hay and doesn't look like it's even started. I dunno whether to sell 'at 'orse and save the farm. Or sell the farm and save the 'orse. 'At 'orse sure 'as 'thusiasm when 'e eats."

"Want to sell him?" asked Jethro Trent. "Guess I could find room on my place for him."

"No," replied Samuel Gage slowly, "don' want to sell 'im. Funny, I kinda like 'at 'orse. It's got a sort o' nice face, like it 'predates what yer does fer it. Reckon if I gets rid o' anything it'll be the farm. I've allers been a fool 'bout 'orses. Never could some'ow sell arter I once bought 'em."

Jethro slapped Samuel Gage on the back, a thing he did but seldom. "You're all right," he said, "glad you're my neighbor. And let me tell you one thing I've learned from observation. A man who is a fool about a horse is seldom a fool about anything else. Any time you need help in feeding that gourmand let me know. Come to think of it, I'll send you over a few bags of oats tomorrow. I'll never miss them."

"'Ow can I ever thank yer?" cried Samuel Gage.

"Don't," said Jethro curtly. Then he smiled.

"Anyway I'm not sending them to you, I'm sending them to the horse."

"'Ope 'e 'predates 'em," chuckled Samuel Gage. He winked his eye mysteriously. "'E was christened this mornin'. Know what I named 'im?"

"How should I?"

"'Eaps," explained Mr. Gage blandly. "Purty good name, I think."

"'Eaps?" repeated Jethro. "'Eaps? What does that mean?"

"Don' yer see? 'Eaps because 'e eats so much. 'E eats 'eaps."

"Not bad," commented Jethro.

"Why should it be bad?" demanded Samuel Gage. "'E's a good 'orse."

Jethro was thankful for the interlude of small talk. It bridged an awkward silence which might have preceded the real reason for his visit. But after continuing talking about the horses for awhile longer he steered the conversation around to Linda Joel and her farm that was now tumbling into ruin, the farm that had never been out of the mind of Jethro Trent since he had heard about it.

"Too bad about that Linda Joel of whom you were telling me the other day," he mused.

"Pathetic case," agreed Samuel Gage. "Nice old lady, too. She sure do miss Enoch. 'E was a won'erful kid. She never grows tired talkin' o"im. I stops at 'er place now and then to talk with 'er awhile. Guess the old gal's purty lonely with not many friends nor nuthin'. I own a small patch, 'bout ten acres next to 'er place. Enoch used to 'ave 'is 'eart set on buyin' it to add to their land. 'E wanted a big farm for 'is ma. And now Enoch is gone. An' things is pretty much muddled up for 'er."

"Would you want to sell that ten acres?" asked Jethro.

"Might consider it," replied Samuel Gage. "Was holdin' it for Enoch. Promised 'im I would but 'e'll never need it now."

"No," muttered Jethro. "I guess he won't need it now."