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It was a matter of pragmatics, he told me. When he was looking for a farm to buy, he narrowed his choices down to two. The other lay in the heart of the settlement, but it was twice as much per acre. The difference, more precisely, came to $30,000 for forty acres versus $38,000 for seventy-one acres. He was able to keep the larger tract in tillage for the time being by going into partnership with his brother; then at some later date he would divide the farm with his son (the baby he’d been nuzzling). He chuckled. “Since I have it, I wanna keep it; but if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t miss it.”

I heard a loud rumble from Harvey’s direction. He smiled at me knowingly and said, “Remember the bumper sticker they had during the energy crisis? ‘Conserve natural gas—fart.’ ”

I gave the due grimace. The alternation between shrewd reasonings and country crudities came a little fast. I resumed the thread. “But being this far away,” I asked, “don’t you find it hard to get people to help you?” Surely it would deter trading favors to have to travel several miles each time it happened.

“Yes, but look at it the other way. Other people don’t ask me to help as often. And you don’t get involved in some of those things that go on.”

What did he mean by “some of those things”? Minor frictions, differences of perception of value in traded labor, perhaps? Or was he referring to deeper squabbles over fundamental issues? I sensed that he, like his father, had a more easygoing attitude about doctrine than some of the other members here and would just as soon sidestep debate. I also noticed that his farm was located at the opposite end of the community from Edward’s. That explained his absence at the barn raising.

Whatever the answers, the differences between himself and his father were smaller than they appeared. Like his dad, he sought sensible solutions to practical problems, studying how to maximize benefits while minimizing trouble. He also had some level of genuine faith that directed him in his decisions on behalf of himself and his family, and he willingly endured the necessary ritual on Sunday. But he was also a person who would gladly take a day off from work to read a good book, and not lose a wink of sleep over labors lost.

As for his preference for the bigger, cheaper piece of land, this turned out to be a passing phase. In days to come he traded his sizable farm for a smaller tract near his father’s homestead, thus giving up his serene isolation for the convenience of closer neighbors. One of whom was me. At the end of the day I was one pig richer, and Harvey had gotten the help—and company—he needed.

Cornelius

The weather was unseasonably cool and bleak the day I set out for the house. I walked along back roads edged by walls of corn so tall it prevented all but an occasional glimpse of the surrounding landscape. I shivered in the cool breeze, wishing I had brought a sweater. The weather reminded me how important a wood supply would be this winter. I was glad I remembered to bring a dull saw.

I finally came upon a ramshackle hut in a clearing. Half of the front porch was gone. A corner post hung unsupported from the roof. Spindly trees were growing up around the tilting foundation; plastic covered the windows instead of glass. I was about to pass by, but then I noticed a tin plate, fork, knife, spatula, and black iron skillet neatly arranged on the back porch floor, apparently laid out to dry. Then I saw some movement.

It was Cornelius, with his long gray and charcoal beard. I recognized him from the barn raising. He had come out the back door.

He looked up in surprise, then brightened when he saw who it was. “I would have come to see you,” he said, “if you hadn’t come first.”

I joined him on his porch, and after we shook hands, he signaled me to the door. The interior of the cabin was unexpectedly inviting: dark-stained walls (quite solid-looking and plumb), a desk heaped with old books, a comfortable sofa, armchairs,