252 MY FARM 



is again in place ; no more wiping of the forehead 

 until the headlands are reached. Watery blisters are 

 rising fast on his hands, and a pebble in his shoe is 

 pressing fearfully on a bunion ; but at the headland 

 he finds temporary relief, and a small can of weak 

 barley-water. Refreshed by this, but somewhat 

 shaky in the legs, he pushes on with zeal possibly 

 thinking of Burns, and how he walked in glory and 



fr joy, 



&quot; Behind his plough, 

 Upon the mountain side,&quot; 



and wondering if he really did? There are no 

 4 wee-tipped daisies to beguile him ; not a mouse is 

 stirring ; only a pestilent mosquito is twanging some 

 where behind his left ear, and a fine aromatic powder 

 rises from the dusty stubble and tickles his nostrils. 

 So he comes to the headland once more and the can ; 

 if he had a copy of Burns in his pocket, it might be 

 pleasant for the fine young fellow to lie off under the 

 shade for a while, and improve his mind. But he 

 has no Burns in fact, no pocket in his overalls ; be 

 sides which, the season is getting late ; he must finish 

 his acre of ploughing. Over and over he eyes the sun 

 it is very slow of getting to its height, and wheu 

 noon conies it finds him in a very draggled and wilty 

 state ; but he mounts one of the horses, and the mate 

 clattering after, he leads off to the barn and the bait 



