12 What Birds Have Done With Me 



Harry ;" almost sings the driver. Then the plow 

 man shouts to him, "Why the devil don't you keep 

 those leaders in line ? Do you think I'm marking 

 out a circus ring?" Straight to the flag; "There, 

 that's better!" and away they go. The small 

 boy is in pursuit and will never forget that first 

 furrow. The soft, cool earth at its bottom seemed 

 to have a kiss and caress for his bare feet at every 

 step. Round and round they go, the share of the 

 great plow, sharp as a knife, cutting off roots 

 bigger than his leg, just like they were cheese. 

 But sometimes they are too big, and the driver 

 goes frantic, and running along the line of strain- 

 ing oxen, whipping, shouting, and swearing, he 

 finds it no use, they have to leave that particular 

 root. Sometimes the chain will get caught on a 

 stump and the big plow will fairly jump out of 

 the ground, the plowman dropping the handles 

 and dodging just like he was afraid of it. 



The small boy whoops and shouts himself 

 hoarse, feeling that he is taking part in the grand- 

 est game ever played on earth. They plowed 

 six furrows around the great field by noon, and 

 then turned the cattle out to graze with the yokes 

 on, so they would not stray too far. Then they 

 take off the share of the plow that they call the 

 lay, and proceed to sharpen it by putting it in a 

 furious fire until it is red hot; then, holding it 

 with pinchers on a big piece of iron, called an anvil, 



