Moonlight and snowfall tinted Jefferson County blue and white. Chapman lay pale with these colors too. He slept under the firmament year-round, though vagrants and farmers alike concurred it as queer. Through teeth and through a mossy beard, Chapman whispered to himself and to Lord God.
Powder fell for minutes during commune.
"Lord God, I do not understand Your wishes. Why do You wish I prolificate the fruit that felled Man? We cannot be trusted with such knowledge dangling from every bough. In this country live wanton men who would eat the apple rather than ingest its wisdom. Not even apples, but appleseeds. Perhaps I could better extol Your Glory with gentle cotton or fine tobac--"
Powder fell for some minutes more.
"But, Lord God -- why does Bunyan get the brawn of a hundred men and an ox? How shall I transport the seeds? How shall I till the soil? Would not Babe be of more use to me than him, my Lord? Or grant me the fleetest of feet to sow your seeds?"
Powder fell brusquely.
"N-- no, I don't want to be called to enforce seaport tariffs or called to dispense fertilizer. It's just that-- no, not a field surgeon either. You know the suffering of Your children makes me queasy. I--"
Powder fell, an ultimatum.
"Y, yes, my Lord."
Chapman slept, barefoot.
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