Again and again Jacob sought refuge in his work. It was a good thing for him that it was pressing, and left little time for his heartache. The field must be tilled, the garden manured, and the meadows watered. In the early part of the year the melted snow rushes wildly down, often tearing up the earth as it goes; then comes the hot sunshine on the slopes: so that to-day there is too much moisture and to-morrow too little. Hardly had the first blades sprouted when the cattle were driven to the higher pastures, for the winter's supply of fodder was nearly all devoured before the spring gave its new green. Living through the winter on moss and brushwood, the beasts were in such poor condition when at last they came out into the open that they could hardly climb the slopes, and many a one would slip and break a leg.
And yet there was a new motto in Altenmoos: up with cattle-breeding and down with agriculture! Jacob could not make up his mind to alter his method of farming: he loved his fields, all his heart was in them, and their tending was a ritual to him.
When, as sower, he trod the long furrows, casting the seed abroad in the earth, it was in an earnest, almost solemn manner, as if he were about some sacred business; and then before his eyes the miracle of the divine love began to fulfil itself. This man, with all his anxiety, his hope, his silent grief, knew nothing better than to watch the resurrection of the buried grain. In the peaceful time, after his working day was over and he sat alone, utterly alone on his stone-heap, he would give himself up to blessed contemplation. Before him the brown fields stretch away, the larks blow trumpets, and in tender, reddish blades the dead arise and look up to heaven. Then gradually everything begins to grow green, the tiny leaves curl and bend earthwards again as if they are listening for any good counsels about life that the Mother may have to give them. Then they aspire upwards, rolling themselves into sheaths, out of which, little by little, emerges the stalk and the inmost being of the corn. By the time Ascension Day is there the corn is looking skywards even in the mountain districts, as if gazing in loving gratitude after Him who called it to life, and who will come again to waken the human seeds that are sown in all the churchyards. In the young summer breeze the cornfield ripples like a blue-green lake, with the cloud-shadows gliding graciously over it. And the single blade is now in its full glory. The four-sided ear, in which the still tender grains lie scale-like over each other, hangs its blossom out like tiny flags wherever a grainlet lies in its cradle, which flutter and tremble without ceasing, while the high stalk rocks thoughtfully to and fro.
God keep us from storms in this blessed season! From rain, too, with the sun shining through it, for that breeds mildew. Wet seasons cause a growth upon the ears, for which the local name of Mother-grain is far too pretty for truth. The sky-climbing youth of the corn soon comes to an end, the hot summer whitens its hair; then, still conscious of its strength and its virtue, it yet bows its head in humility before Him who has given it virtue and strength.
Deeper within this forest of grain, thistles and the parasitical couch grass, the fair-seeming darnel, and every sort of tangled rubble and lawless company thrive rankly enough in the shadow of the corn and are nourished upon its roots. There, also, the wanton corn-cockle is to be found, whose seed later makes the flour—if not already red with shame—such a dirty bluish colour; there the will-o'-the-wisp poppy, and the kindly, patriarchal cornflower, whose crown is made of many little crowns.
Many a time, while a thunderstorm was raging over Altenmoos, Jacob would stand under the heavy eaves over his door, looking out quiet and resigned. Man cannot alter things, God is almighty; what is the good, then, of trembling or complaining? When it grows light, he sees his whole cornfield, now nearly ripe, beaten down. Jacob says, "Thanks and praise be to God that there was no ice in it—all the stalks lie in order and flat on the ground, not one lifts so much as a knee! The heavy rain has laid the corn low, the wind will dry it—lift it up again." But there are years when it does not get up, when the rain beats it down again and again; then it is that the alien, lawless rabble get the upper hand—they rise up from between the prone stalks, and weave a trellis overhead, and begin a godless blooming and bragging above the poor imprisoned corn.
When, however, God does give rain and sunshine in due season (just as the folks who go pilgrimages pray to have it), the fields are glorious. Strong and slender the stalks grow up from joint to joint. The lance-shaped, dark green leaves that lorded it at first, have nearly vanished, the stalks droop their heavy heads, which give back the sown grain thirty or forty-fold, one stalk laying its golden head on the shoulder of another. In the sun's heat by day, at night in the light of the moon and the stars and the glimmer of glow-worms, they are ripening towards harvest.
At last come the reapers. Every grain is armed with a sharp spear for defence or offence, but the reaper does not flinch before the fine-toothed saws that allow no hand to glide downwards, but only upwards from below,—only from lowly to lofty.
When Jacob, always first and last in the heat and burden of the day, rests in late evening beneath a corn-stook in the harvest-field, his dreaming begins again. The breath of grass and flowers makes him drowsy: he watches the antics of a jolly grasshopper, hears the chirp of a cricket—then it all fades away. He is looking out over a country where there is no blue forest, no green meadows, no mountain crags, and no clear streams. So far as ever the eye can reach is one great golden sea, an immeasurable field of corn. Above it, a cloudless sky presses hot and heavy on his heart. Then it comes to his mind: "Say thy grace, Jacob, for this place is the table of a mighty people. Those who live in the mountains must tend their poultry and their cattle, and fetch the bread of corn from this table."
Then Jacob awakes, pulls himself up by the stook, and says into the night, "It'll have to come to that. And yet the cornfield is beautiful—more beautiful than anyhow else—when it lies between the forest and meadow! And a home, if it's a real home, should yield its children everything that they need."