MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST 



miles I have ridden the plow horses across the spring 

 fields, where mellow mould rolled black from the shining 

 shares, and the perfumed air made me feel so near flying 

 that aU I seemed to need was a high start to be able to 

 sail with the sentinel blackbird, that perched on the big 

 oak, and with one sharp "T'check!" warned his feeding 

 flock, surely and truly, whether a passing man carried a 

 gun or a hoe. Then came the planting, when bare 

 feet loved the cool earth, and trotted over other untold 

 miles, while little fingers carefully counted out seven 

 grains from the store carried in my apron skirt, as I 

 chanted: 



" One for the blackbird, one for the crow. 

 One for the cutworm and four to grow." 



Then father covered them to the right depth, and 

 stamped each hill with the flat of the hoe, while 

 we talked of golden corn bread, and sUces of mush, 

 fried to a crisp brown that cook would make in the 

 fall. We had to plant enough more to feed all the 

 horses, cattle, pigs, turkeys, geese, and chickens, 

 during the long winter, even if the sun grew uncom- 

 fortably warm, and the dinner bell was slow about 

 ringing. 



Then there were the Indian days in the field, when a 

 fallen eagle feather stuck in a braid, and some poke- 

 berry juice on the face, transformed me into the Indian 



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