His full name is Richard Tecumseh Sheridan, but every one calls
him Dick. A good, cheerful fellow, Dick, and a hard worker. I like him.
"Hello, Dick," I shouted.
"Hello yourself, Mr. Grayson," he replied.
He hung his scythe in the branches of a pear tree and we both turned
into the barnyard to get the chores out of the way. I wanted to delay
cutting as long as I could--until the dew on the clover should begin--at
least--to disappear.
By half-past-seven we were ready for work. We rolled back our sleeves,
stood our scythes on end and gave them a final lively stoning. You could
hear the brisk sound of the ringing metal pealing through the still
morning air.
"It's a great day for haying," I said.
"A dang good one," responded the laconic Dick, wetting his thumb to feel
the edge of his scythe.
I cannot convey with any mere pen upon any mere paper the feeling of
jauntiness I had at that moment, as of conquest and fresh adventure, as
of great things to be done in a great world! You may say if you like
that this exhilaration was due to good health and the exuberance of
youth. But it was more than that--far more. I cannot well express it,
but it seemed as though at that moment Dick and I were stepping out into
some vast current of human activity: as though we had the universe
itself behind us, and the warm regard and approval of all men.
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