farming

We have been living through a time of sorrow. Our seed remains seed. Our nostrils are dusty.

Someday men will learn to irrigate and spread fertilizer instead of praying for fertility.

Ellis,_ he said. __ou__e watchin_ a miracle right under your nose._ He gave a few of the seeds to Ellis and let him drop them into the hole he had already made. __n each of them little things, God put life. Now you take care with it, and you feed it with water and sunlight. And, most important of all of __m, put it in good ground, and that life is gonna sprout right out.

A farmer, as one of his farmer correspondents once wrote to Liberty Hyde Bailey, is "a dispenser of the 'Mysteries of God.'"The husband, unlike the "manager" or the would-be objective scientist, belongs inherently to the complexity and the mystery that is to be husbanded, and so the husbanding mind is both careful and humble.

Through my history's despiteand ruin, I have cometo its remainder, and herehave made the beginningof a farm intended to becomemy art of being here.By it I would instructmy wants: they should belongto each other and to this place.Until my song comes hereto learn its words, my artis but the hope of song.(Part 2 from History is Clearing, p 174)

Life on the farm had fed his soul since he was a child. he was ever grateful to Gott for giving him a chance to work the land and live by the seasons. It was a good life...but a lonely one for a man his age, a man too old to be living with his family.

Not every environment accepts the dream shaping progress you want to put across. Take a second look at what you dream about, be sure it can progress very well where you are; Hiroshima and Nagasaki are not fertile grounds for a farmer__ dream seeds. Go and relocate!

Check your environment and be sure that it is supportive. Some environments do not support progress. Hiroshima and Nagasaki are not fertile lands for a farmer__ dream seeds. Change location.

To a farmer dirt is not a waste, it is wealth.

A farmer is a magician who produces money from the mud.

If the farmer is rich, then so is the nation.

It's not the deprivations of winter that get you, or the damp of spring, but the no-man's land between.

Before researchers become researchers they should become philosophers. They should consider what the human goal is, what it is that humanity should create.Doctors should first determine at the fundamental level what it is that human beings depend on for life...Modern scientific agriculture, on the other hand, has no such vision. Research wanders about aimlessly, each researcher seeing just one part of the infinite array of natural factors which affect harvest yields.Even though it is the same quarter acre, the farmer must grow his crops differently each year in accordance with variations in weather, insect populations, the condition of the soil, and many other natural factors. Nature is everywhere in perpetual motion; conditions are never exactly the same in any two years.Modern research divides nature into tiny pieces and conducts tests that conform neither with natural law nor with practical experiences. The results are arranged for the convenience of research, not according to the needs of the farmer.

Fast rather than slow, more rather than less--this flashy "development" is linked directly to society's impending collapse. It has only served to separate man from nature. Humanity must stop indulging the desire for material possessions and personal gain and move instead toward spiritual awareness.Agriculture must change from large mechanical operations to small farms attached only to life itself. Material life and diet should be given a simple place. If this is done, work becomes pleasant, and spiritual breathing space becomes plentiful.

There are only two reasons to farm: because you have to, and because you love to. The ones who choose to farm choose for love.

When Geoffrey was away, the goat often took himself off. He had soon got the goats at Granny__ cottage doing his bidding, and Nanny Ogg said once that she had seen what she called __hat devil goat_ sitting in the middle of a circle of feral goats up in the hills. She named him __he Mince of Darkness_ because of his small and twinkling hooves, and added, __ot that I don__ like him, stinky as he is. I__e always been one for the horns, as you might say. Goats is clever. Sheep ain__. No offence, my dear.

Grow up, Bailey.""That is precisely what I'm doing," Bailey says. "I don't care if you don't understand that. Staying here won't make me happy. It will make you happy because you're insipid and boring, and an insipid, boring life is enough for you. It's not enough for me. It will never be enough for me. So I'm leaving. Do me a favor and marry someone who will take decent care of the sheep.

A farm regulated to production of raw commodities is not a farm at all. It is a temporary blip until the land is used up, the water polluted, the neighbors nauseated, and the air unbreathable. The farmhouse, the concrete, the machinery, and outbuildings become relics of a bygone vibrancy when another family farm moves to the city financial centers for relief.