Chapter 34 Where I Live; Why I Live - 2

The real charm of Hollowell's country, it seems to me, is its depth of seclusion, two miles from the village, half a mile from its nearest neighbour, and the fact that it is separated from the road by a great stretch of land; By the river, according to its owner, because of this river, fog rises, and there will be no more frost in spring, but this is not in my heart; The dilapidated look, coupled with the scattered fence, seems to have separated me from the previous residents for so many years; and the apple tree, the tree is empty, covered with moss, and the rabbit has bitten it, it can be seen that I will There are some neighbors, but the most important thing is the memory of that time. I used to go up the river in the early years. At that time, these houses were hidden in the dense red maple leaves. I still remember that I heard a house barking of dogs.I was anxious to buy it, and could not wait for the proprietor to remove the rocks, cut down the empty apple trees, uproot the alder saplings that had sprung up in the pastures, in a word, do anything about it.To enjoy the aforementioned advantages, I decided to do it; like Atlas, put the world on my shoulders,--I never heard how he was paid,--I will do everything Thing: There is hardly any other motive or excuse, but when the money is paid, I will take possession of this field and keep it from being invaded by others; Bring out the richest harvest I have ever sought.But the later results have been seen above.

So, all I'm saying about large-scale farming (I've been growing a garden so far) is that I've got the seeds ready.Many people believe that older seeds are better.I don't doubt that time can distinguish between good and bad, but in the end I really planted the seeds, and I think I probably won't be disappointed.But I want to tell my partners, just this once, and never again: You should live free and unattached for as long as possible.There is almost no difference between being obsessed with a farm and being locked up in a county government prison. Old Cato—his "Country" was my "initiator" once said—unfortunately, the only translation I have seen has translated this passage in a mess—"When you want to buy When you are in a pastoral field, you would rather think about it a lot in your mind, but never buy it greedily, let alone stop visiting it because of the trouble, and don’t think that going around it in a circle is enough. If This is a good garden, the more you go there, the more you like it." I don't think I will buy it insatiably, I will go around as long as I live, and after I die, I will first be buried in the There.That's how I ended up liking it even more.

What I am about to write now is the second experiment of my kind, and I intend to describe it in more detail; but for convenience I will combine the experience of these two years into one.I have said that I am not going to write an ode to despondency, but I will crow like a rooster on its perch at dawn, even if I do it only to wake my neighbours. The first day I lived in the forest, that is, the day I was there and spent the night there, happened to be July 4, 1845, Independence Day, and my house was not built. , It’s not enough to survive the winter, but it can only barely shelter from the wind and rain. There is no plaster, no chimney, and the walls are made of rough wooden boards that have been weathered by the wind and rain, with large gaps, so it is very cool at night.The straight, felled, white studs, and the newly planed door and window frames give the house a clean and airy look, especially in the morning when the wood is saturated with dew, which always makes me fantasize. Some sweet gum oozes out of it by about noon.The room, in my imagination, would retain more or less the mood of this morning throughout the day, reminding me of a house on a hilltop I had visited the previous year, a well-aired, well-ventilated house. Houses without plaster, fit for traveling fairies to dwell on the way, and fit for fairies to walk and drag their skirts by.The wind blowing over my roof, like the wind sweeping across the ridge, sang intermittent tunes, perhaps fragments of music from heaven and earth.For ever the morning wind blows, and the Psalm of Genesis is uninterrupted; but few ears hear it.Lingshan is only on the outside of the earth, everywhere.