I stuck my whetstone in my hip-pocket, bent forward and cut the first
short sharp swath in the clover. I swept the mass of tangled green stems
into the open space just outside the gate. Three or four more strokes
and Dick stopped whistling suddenly, spat on his hands and with a lively
"Here she goes!" came swinging in behind me. The clover-cutting had
begun.
At first I thought the heat would be utterly unendurable, and, then,
with dripping face and wet shoulders, I forgot all about it. Oh, there
is something incomparable about such work--the long steady pull of
willing and healthy muscles, the mind undisturbed by any disquieting
thought, the feeling of attainment through vigorous effort! It was a
steady swing and swish, swish and swing! When Dick led I have a picture
of him in my mind's eye--his wiry thin legs, one heel lifted at each
step and held rigid for a single instant, a glimpse of pale blue socks
above his rusty shoes and three inches of whetstone sticking from his
tight hip-pocket. It was good to have him there whether he led or
followed.
At each return to the orchard end of the field we looked for and found a
gray stone jug in the grass. I had brought it up with me filled with
cool water from the pump.
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