We often overlook that the sun shines equally upon our cultivated fields, prairies, and forests, without discrimination. Each of these areas reflects and absorbs his rays in the same way, and our cultivated fields make up only a small part of the magnificent picture he sees during his daily journey. From his perspective, the earth is all equally cultivated, much like a garden. Therefore, we should embrace the benefits of his light and warmth with a corresponding trust and magnanimity.

Although I value the beans I plant and harvest in the fall, the vast field I have watched for so long does not see me as its primary cultivator. Instead, it looks to more favorable influences, such as water, which nurture and make it green. The beans I plant have results beyond my harvest—they grow for woodchucks too. The ear of wheat (in Latin, spica, obsoletely speca, from spe, hope) should not be the only hope of the farmer; its kernel or grain (granum from gerendo, bearing) is just one of its many gifts.

How, then, can our harvest fail? Should I not also rejoice in the abundance of weeds whose seeds become the granary of the birds? It matters little whether the fields fill the farmer’s barns. The true husbandman will find no cause for anxiety, as squirrels show no concern whether the woods will bear chestnuts this year. He will complete his labor each day, relinquishing all claims to the produce of his fields, and sacrifice not only his first but his last fruits as well.
