23 



at his work. The sun climbs high and 

 higher. From the rising to the going down 

 thereof he rakes and grubs. The smoke 

 of his burning at night, at morning 

 hangs blue wreaths along all the hills. At 

 last comes the coulter, as cruelly sharp as 

 justice. Soberly, with low heads, with strain- 

 ing necks, the team drag it cutting, rend- 

 ing all the tender roots. Each long, black 

 furrow is a trail of woodland blood. Once 

 and across the narrow plough goes. The 

 harrow behind it fairly chokes with mangled 

 roots. What fine earth it leaves ! so light, 

 so soft, so fragrant. The smell of it out- 

 matches even the swelling buds those 

 small, brown, scaly miracles that so cun- 

 ningly enfold the mystery of growth, the 

 glory of flower and leaf. 



Now it lies ready for planting. Happy 

 the seed, the root, whose lines fall in such 

 place. If the Dryads must seek new groves, 

 the fowls of the air new nests rejoice and 

 be glad that Nature's alchemy shall return 

 toil so strenuous in corn and wine. 



