HAPPY HOLLOW FARM 87 



little furrows that didn't go four inches deep 

 at the best. That was the rule hereabouts ; but 

 it was all wrong. It did no more than loosen 

 a thin sheet of soil over a packed "plow pan" 

 of clay, leaving it as if by deliberate design to 

 be washed and guttered by the summer rains. 

 If it didn't happen to wash away, it was sure 

 to dry out entirely between rains, for no water 

 could enter the compacted subsoil. With our 

 big plows and strong mules we tore into the 

 tough "pan," ripping it up, mixing it with the 

 surface soil. It was a rough looking job when 

 it was finished ; it didn't promise much for the 

 year's cropping. With the stiff clay, more 

 stone came up; in spots, after the first rain, 

 the fields appeared just about as stone-littered 

 as ever. There was another winter's job of 

 hauling ahead of us. We didn't care about 

 that, though; we had given the land its first 

 touch of real high life. I meant to be satisfied 

 if we harvested anything at all that year. 



While our plowing was going on, some of 

 the neighbors got into the way of dropping 

 their own work to look on at ours. They had 

 thought us crazy before; now they were sure 

 of it. If our building had put a crimp in the 

 rules, our farming burst them wide asunder. 



