The stone had been rolled from the
sepulchre!
And I knew then that the destined time had arrived for my planting. That
afternoon I marked out my corn-field, driving the mare to my home-made
wooden marker, carefully observant of the straightness of the rows; for
a crooked corn-row is a sort of immorality. I brought down my seed corn
from the attic, where it had hung waiting all winter, each ear suspended
separately by the white, up-turned husks. They were the selected ears of
last year's crop, even of size throughout, smooth of kernel, with tips
well-covered--the perfect ones chosen among many to perpetuate the
highest excellencies of the crop. I carried them to the shed next my
barn, and shelled them out in my hand machine: as fine a basket of
yellow dent seed as a man ever saw. I have listened to endless
discussions as to the relative merits of flint and dent corn. I here
cast my vote emphatically for yellow dent: it is the best Nature can do!
I found my seed-bag hanging, dusty, over a rafter in the shed, and
Harriet sewed a buckle on the strip that goes around the waist. I
cleaned and sharpened my hoe.
"Now," I said to myself, "give me a good day and I am ready to plant."
The sun was just coming up on Friday, looking over the trees into a
world of misty and odorous freshness.
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