learned agricultural rule, but somehow I liked to do it. It has seemed
reasonable to me, instead of watching for a phase of the moon (for I do
not cultivate the moon), to inquire of the earth itself. For many days I
had no response; the soil was of an icy, moist coldness, as of death.
"I am not ready yet," it said; "I have not rested my time."

Early in the week we had a day or two of soft sunshine, of fecund
warmth, to which the earth lay open, willing, passive. On Thursday
morning, though a white frost silvered the harrow ridges, when I thrust
my hand into the soil I felt, or seemed to feel, a curious response: a
strange answering of life to life. The stone had been rolled from the
sepulchre!

And I knew then that the destined time had arrived for my planting. That
afternoon I marked out my corn-field, driving the mare to my home-made
wooden marker, carefully observant of the straightness of the rows; for
a crooked corn-row is a sort of immorality. I brought down my seed corn
from the attic, where it had hung waiting all winter, each ear suspended
separately by the white, up-turned husks. They were the selected ears of
last year's crop, even of size throughout, smooth of kernel, with tips
well-covered--the perfect ones chosen among many to perpetuate the
highest excellencies of the crop. I carried them to the shed next my
barn, and shelled them out in my hand machine: as fine a basket of
yellow dent seed as a man ever saw. I have listened to endless
discussions as to the relative merits of flint and dent corn. I here
cast my vote emphatically for yellow dent: it is the best Nature can do!

I found my seed-bag hanging, dusty, over a rafter in the shed, and
Harriet sewed a buckle on the strip that goes around the waist. I
cleaned and sharpened my hoe.