Ploughing 3 1 



It took grit to go back from rest and shade 

 and cool freshness to the ache and burning 

 of the fallows, but Joe did not flinch. He 

 had put his hand to the plough rather against 

 his father's will ; besides, though he had a de- 

 cent enough gun, he wanted a new one very 

 badly. Breech-loader, choke bore — he 

 thought of it, over and over, between whistles 

 and chirrups to his mules. It would cost a 

 lot — more, no doubt, than a fallow-hand's 

 wages. He was likely to get it whether he 

 ploughed or not, but somehow he felt that he 

 should care more for it, if he knew he had 

 really earned it. 



Dan was singing in the unspoiled African 

 voice, full of pure melody. He sang a bold 

 air, and lively, one that had come down 

 from the slave days, when every sort of 

 work had its chant in time and tune. The 

 singing broke welcomely across the sunlit hush. 

 Clouds were boiling up in the south, but lo- 

 cust and rain-crow alike had fallen silent. 

 There was not a breath of wind, but sound 

 carried so as to forebode a thunder-shower. 

 The words came distinct and clear across the 

 unbroken ground. If more of it had been 

 ploughed they would have blurred. Joe 

 caught the rhythm of the singing. He had 

 not much breath to spare, but as strongly as 

 he might, he joined in the chorus. And so 



