His
theory (he must have a theory to account for everything; it comforts
him. He has just hit upon a theory that explains why twins are born
with twice as much original sin as other children, and doesn't seem
to mind now what they do) is that each odd corner of the earth has
gained a character of its own from the spirits of the countless dead
men buried in its bosom. 'Robbers and thieves,' he will say, kicking
the sod of some field all stones and thistles; 'silly fighting men
who thought God built the world merely to give them the fun of
knocking it about. Look at them, the fools! stones and thistles--
thistles and stones: that is their notion of a field.' Or, leaning
over the gate of some field of rich-smelling soil, he will stretch
out his arms as though to caress it: 'Brave lads!' he will say;
'kindly honest fellows who loved the poor peasant folk.' I fancy he
has not got much sense of humour; or if he has, it is a humour he
leaves you to find out for yourself. One does not feel one wants to
laugh, listening even to his most whimsical ideas; and anyhow it is a
fact that of two fields quite close to one another, one will be worth
ten pounds an acre and the other dear at half a crown, and there
seems to be nothing to explain it. We have a seven-acre patch just
halfway up the hill. He says he never passes it without taking off
his hat to it. Whatever you put in it does well; while other fields,
try them with what you will, it is always the very thing they did not
want.
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