42 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



a melon-patch. It was nothing of the kind, only 

 a wild, uncomfortable pasture, full of dewberry 

 vines, and very discouraging. They were exces- 

 sively wet vines and briery. I pulled my coat- 

 sleeves as far over my fists as I could get them, 

 and with the tin pail of sand swinging from be- 

 tween my teeth to avoid noise, I stumped fiercely 

 but silently on after the turtle. 



" She was laying her course, I thought, straight 

 down the length of this dreadful pasture, when, 

 not far from the fence, she suddenly hove to, 

 warped herself short about, and came back, barely 

 clearing me, at a clip that was thrilling. I warped 

 about, too, and in her wake bore down across the 

 corner of the pasture, across the powdery public 

 road, and on to a fence along a field of young 

 corn. 



" I was somewhat wet by this time, but not so 

 wet as I had been before wallowing through the 

 deep dry dust of the road. Hurrying up behind 

 a large tree by the fence, I peered down the corn- 

 rows and saw the turtle stop, and begin to paw 

 about in the loose soft soil. She was going to lay ! 



" I held on to the tree and watched, as she tried 

 this place, and that place, and the other place — 



