154 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FAEM. 



And the speaker threw an eye sideways to one 

 who rode on his left, as he repeated the last 

 words an eye most expressive for with the good 



natured "crow's foot" that nestled close up to it and 



* 



seemed to tell of home-feelings and fire-side memo- 

 ries, there was a momentary wrinkle, a peep of 

 something well accustomed to concealment, that 

 glanced out for an instant telegraphing (how 

 rapidly!) a half century's experience of the words, 

 "FROM THE SWEAT OF THY BROW SHALT THOU EAT 

 BREAD." Yet not complainingly : too truthfully 

 and heart-whole for that. 



No answer came. The ash stick went on stead- 

 ily : and the spur ; for the tail performed the part 

 of index a true toll-tail, swishing and signalizing 

 toward each application of the blunt rowel upon the 

 same spot, grown horny and resistful under its influ- 

 ence. The mouth that had spoken dropped into the 

 neck-warmer again and the kind but care-full eye 

 looked straight forward, with its fellow, into the early 

 morning fog that lay upon the roads and fields, and 

 dripped upon the hedges, where the gossamer had 

 hung its tiny tissues, waiting patiently for Sunrise. 

 Click, click, click, click, went the aggravating oft- 

 side hind-shoe, for half a mile nearly, before another 

 word was spoken. 



