Red Letter Days 79 



aged farmer with a smile in the direction of his 

 wife. And then they changed the subject to a 

 more prosaic theme. 



FUBROWS CBOOKED AS A COW PATH 



Of course I was not full of thoughts of the his- 

 tory of the plough and the sentiment which per- 

 tains to the art of turning furrows when I went 

 forth that July morning to try conclusions with 

 that summer fallow. I freely admit that my first 

 furrows were irregular and somewhat resembled 

 the old cow path that ran crooked to the wood. 

 My plough bumped into many stones and it seemed 

 to me that I was hit on both sides at once by those 

 plough handles at times. The dew of duty — as the 

 poet terms it — was on my brow. I was perspiring, 

 yes, just plain sweating. It was a hot and dusty 

 job but all my troubles vanished when along about 

 the middle of the forenoon my father came to in- 

 vestigate, and informed me that, for a beginner, 

 in the manly art of turning furrows, I was doing 

 very well indeed. 



At dinner that first day at the plough I found 

 myself gripping my knife and fork as if I still 

 had hold of the plough handles. I was terribly 

 in earnest and I remember that I related to my 

 mother my adventures in the broad field of agri- 

 culture with some pride. 



' ' But you 're not going to be a farmer, my son, ' ' 

 she said with a kindly smile. You see my mother's 



