XI 



THIS is June twentieth, right at the zenith 

 of the long summer days. Sam has had a 

 grouch since early morning. You wouldn't 

 know it unless you knew him. Most Irishmen 

 have a way of cutting loose when they're hot 

 about something using fiery words, or slam- 

 ming their tools around, or yanking at their 

 beasts at the plow. That isn't Sam's way. 

 The madder Sam gets the quieter he is. When 

 he's really in a rage you'd hardly know he's 

 about. He moves very softly and speaks not 

 at all. And man, dear, how he does work 

 when one of those fits is on him! I shouldn't 

 care if he stayed mad all the time through 

 the rush season. 



We've been stacking our wheat to-day, to 

 have it ready for the threshers. There are two 

 young mountains of it, mighty rich-looking in 

 their deep golden yellow. It was hard work 

 to build them, though; hot work too, along in 

 the middle of the day, in the brilliant glare of 



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