Ploughing 1 5 



stood up, drew a long breath and looked about 

 him. The mists that had hung so low over the 

 swales and in the creek valley had risen as high 

 as the tree-tops. The sky was clear, except 

 for the faintest silver mottle far down at the 

 southwest. Overhead the blue brightened 

 momently, but still the east was a soft trans- 

 lucent pink. Joe hoped it would not deepen 

 to angry red — he did not want hindering rain 

 upon this first fallow day. He was weather- 

 wise after the manner of country lads, but the 

 omens were contradictory. Clouds and heat- 

 lightning in the south meant fine weather, as 

 a red sunrise foreboded rain. On top of that, 

 the locusts, which he called "dry-flies," were 

 shrilling merrily, yet there was the rain-crow, 

 the clown of the woods, " calling rain," with 

 all his might. 



Bob Whites, feeding in the stubble upon 

 clover buds and scattered wheat, called in 

 soft half-plaintive singsong to their fledg- 

 ling broods. Grasshoppers hung, often head 

 downward, upon tall weeds, and stout grass- 

 culms, but were as yet too damp and chilly 

 for hopping — indeed, almost too sluggish even 

 for crawHng. There were butterflies every- 

 where, their wings too heavy for flight. 

 Clouds of tiny white ones clung to the damp 

 places, their motionless wings held flat to- 

 gether, straight above their tiny bodies. 



