PARTIINeighboringFieldsIITissixteenyearssinceJohnBergsondied.Hiswifenowliesbesidehim,andthewhiteshaftthatmarkstheirgravesgleamsacrossthewheat-fields.Couldherisefrombeneathit,hewouldnotknowthecountryunderwhichhehasbeenasleep.Theshaggycoatoftheprairie,whichtheyliftedtomakehimabed,hasvanishedforever.FromtheNorwegiangraveyardonelooksoutoveravastchecker-board,markedoffinsquaresofwheatandcorn;lightanddark,darkandlight.Telephonewireshumalongthewhiteroads,whichalwaysrunatrightangles.Fromthegraveyardgateonecancountadozengaylypaintedfarmhouses;thegildedweather-vanes风标onthebigredbarnswinkateachotheracrossthegreenandbrownandyellowfields.Thelightsteelwindmillstremblethroughouttheirframesandtugattheirmoorings,astheyvibrateinthewindthatoftenblowsfromoneweek'sendtoanotheracrossthathigh,active,resolutestretchofcountry.TheDivideisnowthicklypopulated.Therichsoilyieldsheavyharvests;thedry,bracing凉爽的climateandthesmoothnessofthelandmakelaboreasyformenandbeasts.Therearefewscenesmoregratifyingthanaspringplowinginthatcountry,wherethefurrowsofasinglefieldoftenlieamileinlength,andthebrownearth,withsuchastrong,cleansmell,andsuchapowerofgrowthandfertilityinit,yieldsitselfeagerlytotheplow;rollsawayfromtheshear,notevendimmingthebrightnessofthemetal,withasoft,deepsighofhappiness.Thewheatcuttingsometimesgoesonallnightaswellasallday,andingoodseasonstherearescarcelymenandhorsesenoughtodotheharvesting.Thegrainissoheavythatitbendstowardthebladeandcutslikevelvet.Thereissomethingfrankandjoyousandyoungintheopenfaceofthecountry.Itgivesitselfungrudgingly慷慨地tothemoodsoftheseason,holdingnothingback.LiketheplainsofLombardy,itseemstorisealittletomeetthesun.Theairandtheeartharecuriouslymatedandintermingled,asiftheonewerethebreathoftheother.Youfeelintheatmospherethesametonic滋补的,puissant强大的qualitythatisinthetilth耕过的土地,thesamestrengthandresoluteness.OneJunemorningayoungmanstoodatthegateoftheNorwegiangraveyard,sharpeninghisscythe镰instrokesunconsciouslytimedtothetunehewaswhistling.Heworeaflannelcapandduck帆布trou