A WALK IN THE FIELDS 



looked upon the stone that sheltered them as an 

 old institution that we had no right to remove. No 

 right, my little folk, only the might of the stronger. 

 Sometimes a flat stone would prove the roof of 

 a mouse-nest — a blinking, bead-eyed, meadow- 

 mouse. What consternation would seize him, too, as 

 he would rush off along the little round beaten ways 

 under the dry grass and weeds! Many of the large 

 bowlders were deeply imbedded in the soil, and only 

 stuck their noses or heads, so to speak, up through 

 the turf. These we would first tackle with the big 

 lever, a long, dry, ironwood pole, as heavy as one 

 could handle, shod with a horseshoe. With the 

 end of this thrust under the end or edge of a bowlder, 

 and resting upon a stone for a fulcrum, we would 

 begin the assault. Inch by inch the turf-bound rock . 

 would yield. Sometimes the lever would slip its 

 hold, and come down upon our heads if we were not 

 watchful. As the rock yielded, the lever required 

 more bait, as the farmer calls it, — an addition to 

 the fulcrum. After the rock was raised sufficiently, 

 we would prop it up with stones, arrange a skid or 

 skids under it — green beech poles cut in the woods 

 — wrap a chain around it, and hitch the oxen to it, 

 directing them to the right or left to turn the bowlder 

 out of its bed and place it on the surface of the 

 ground. When this was accomplished, then came the 

 dead straight pull to the line of the fence. An old, 

 experienced ox-team know what is before them, or 

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