Ploughing 25 



you though. I do wish you were — the boy 

 you ought to be." 



The dew dried fast — so fast the sun-heat 

 took on a tonic quality. The mules went 

 freer, and faster, breathing deep, yet not labor- 

 ing in the least. The second sweat came out 

 in a reeking smother all over them. When it 

 dried in crusty white lines Joe drew a sigh of 

 relief. Twice wet, twice dry, he knew his 

 team was proof against the heat, for that day 

 at least. It was fierce heat — still it was not 

 the sun that would send them in at eleven or 

 a little later, to stay in stall until three of the 

 afternoon. It was the flies — the flies which 

 in spite of the nets kept them kicking, biting, 

 stamping, at times almost squealing. That 

 was the worst part of breaking pastured clover 

 laiid. Cattle had drawn and left there such 

 clouds of flies. 



The plough hardly ever choked in the after- 

 math ; though the growth was so heavy it 

 was not tall and tough like the early stalks in 

 the pasture-ground. Going farther and far- 

 ther into the swales the plough encountered 

 the long stalks in mats. Grazing beasts are 

 something finicky — they choose to crop short 

 sweet herbage rather than that which is rank 

 and coarse. Even in hay they know the dif- 

 ference. Many of the swale-stalks were over 

 two yards long, and set throughout their 



