Adventures in Contentment | Page 9

since meant such varied
enjoyment, of the peopling of the woods.
"See here," he said, "how different the character of these individuals.
They are all of the same species. They all grow along this fence within
two or three rods; but observe the difference not only in size but in
colouring, in the shape of the petals, in the proportions of the cone.
What does it all mean? Why, nature trying one of her endless
experiments. She sows here broadly, trying to produce better
cone-flowers. A few she plants on the edge of the field in the hope that
they may escape the plow. If they grow, better food and more sunshine
produce more and larger flowers."
So we talked, or rather he talked, finding in me an eager listener. And
what he called botany seemed to me to be life. Of birth, of growth, of
reproduction, of death, he spoke, and his flowers became sentient
creatures under my eyes.
And thus the sun went down and the purple mists crept silently along

the distant low spots, and all the great, great mysteries came and stood
before me beckoning and questioning. They came and they stood, and
out of the cone-flower, as the old professor spoke, I seemed to catch a
glimmer of the true light. I reflected how truly everything is in anything.
If one could really understand a cone-flower he could understand this
Earth. Botany was only one road toward the Explanation.
Always I hope that some traveller may have more news of the way than
I, and sooner or later, I find I must make inquiry of the direction of
every thoughtful man I meet. And I have always had especial hope of
those who study the sciences: they ask such intimate questions of
nature. Theology possesses a vain-gloriousness which places its faith in
human theories; but science, at its best, is humble before nature herself.
It has no thesis to defend: it is content to kneel upon the earth, in the
way of my friend, the old professor, and ask the simplest questions,
hoping for some true reply.
I wondered, then, what the professor thought, after his years of work, of
the Mystery; and finally, not without confusion, I asked him. He
listened, for the first time ceasing to dig, shake out and arrange his
specimens. When I had stopped speaking he remained for a moment
silent, then he looked at me with a new regard. Finally he quoted
quietly, but with a deep note in his voice:
"Canst thou by searching find God? Canst thou find out the Almighty
unto perfection? It is as high as heaven: what canst thou do? deeper
than hell, what canst thou know?"
When the professor had spoken we stood for a moment silent, then he
smiled and said briskly:
"I have been a botanist for fifty-four years. When I was a boy I
believed implicitly in God. I prayed to him, having a vision of him--a
person--before my eyes. As I grew older I concluded that there was no
God. I dismissed him from the universe. I believed only in what I could
see, or hear, or feel. I talked about Nature and Reality."
He paused, the smile still lighting his face, evidently recalling to

himself the old days. I did not interrupt him. Finally he turned to me
and said abruptly.
"And now--it seems to me--there is nothing but God."
As he said this he lifted his arm with a peculiar gesture that seemed to
take in the whole world.
For a time we were both silent. When I left him I offered my hand and
told him I hoped I might become his friend. So I turned my face toward
home. Evening was falling, and as I walked I heard the crows calling,
and the air was keen and cool, and I thought deep thoughts.
And so I stepped into the darkened stable. I could not see the outlines
of the horse or the cow, but knowing the place so well I could easily get
about. I heard the horse step aside with a soft expectant whinny. I
smelled the smell of milk, the musty, sharp odour of dry hay, the
pungent smell of manure, not unpleasant. And the stable was warm
after the cool of the fields with a sort of animal warmth that struck into
me soothingly. I spoke in a low voice and laid my hand on the horse's
flank. The flesh quivered and shrunk away from my touch--coming
back confidently, warmly. I ran my hand along his back and up his
hairy neck. I felt his sensitive nose in my hand. "You shall have your
oats," I said, and I gave him to eat. Then I spoke as gently to the cow,
and she stood