The Mad Farmer Revolution

Being a Fragment of the Natural History of New Eden, in Homage To Mr. Ed McClanahan, One of the Locals The mad farmer, the thirsty one, went dry. When he had time he threw a visionary high lonesome on the holy communion wine. "It is an awesome event when an earthen man has drunk his fill of the blood of a god," people said, and got out of his way. He plowed the churchyard, the minister's wife, three graveyards and a golf course. In a parking lot he planted a forest of little pines. He sanctified the groves, dancing at night in the oak shades with goddesses. He led a field of corn to creep up and tassel like an Indian tribe on the courthouse lawn. Pumpkins ran out to the ends of their vines to follow him. Ripe plums and peaches reached into his pockets. Flowers sprang up in his tracks everywhere he stepped. And then his planter's eye fell on that parson's fair fine lady again. "O holy plowman," cried she, "I am all grown up in weeds. Pray, bring me back into good tilth." He tilled her carefully and laid her by, and she did bring forth others of her kind, and others, and some more. They sowed and reaped till all the countryside was filled with farmers and their brides sowing and reaping. When they died they became two spirits of the woods. On their graves were written these words without sound: "Here lies Saint Plowman. Here lies Saint Fertile Ground."