HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 39 



I never could find out what a plow like that 

 was supposed to do. It wasn't doing much of 

 anything just then merely bobbing and jerk- 

 ing and bumping along over the stones. One 

 lean mule was pulling it, and the plowman 

 clumped and stumbled in the rear, yanking on 

 the lines and swearing in a hurt, despairing 

 sort of way. The plow-point would strike a 

 bowlder buried just under the surface, go slid- 

 ing and scraping over, then ram beneath an- 

 other stone and stick there, pitching the- han- 

 dles into the air. Nine times in ten, when that 

 happened, the handles would poke the plow- 

 man viciously in his short ribs. That seemed 

 to make him very angry. How that does hurt 1 

 That's what he was swearing about; but his 

 swearing sounded pitifully impotent, as if he 

 was all out of breath. 



"Oh foot!" he'd gasp at the mule in an ex- 

 asperated treble. "You old fool you!" Then 

 he'd yank at the lines, pull his plow-point from 

 beneath the stone, and go jolting and bobbing 

 and bumping along till he hit the next one. It 

 was a continuous performance. 



He'd used poor, cheap seed in planting his 

 field, dropping it all by hand and covering it 

 with a hand hoe. He'd got a very poor 



