Ploughing 27 



the tender aftermath wilted almost as the fur- 

 row was turned. Joe stopped the mules, let 

 go the plough, and stretched himself long and 

 hard. He had never known before how tired 

 a boy could be. Still he had no thought of 

 giving up. That was not the Baker way. 

 If the Bakers made bad bargains, they stuck 

 the closer to them. Joe wiped his face, loosed 

 his shirt-collar, and comforted himself by the 

 reflection that the first day was always the 

 hardest. 



Just then he heard the watering-bell — the 

 very welcomest sound in all his life. In a 

 trice he had the gear stripped from his mules, 

 and laid orderly back upon the singletrees, and 

 was clipping away toward the gate. A big 

 branchy red oak shaded it. The shade was 

 like a cool green cave. The mules stopped 

 short as they stepped within it, and Wicked 

 Sal gave a little whimpering bray to Tiger, 

 trotting in ten yards behind her. 



Slow Pete was breaking the old grass in 

 ridge and furrow. That is to say, he was 

 turning over a furrow slice to lie flat upon an 

 equal breadth of sward. Tennessee plough- 

 men call such half-breaking of weed-land, 

 whip-stitching. The use and reason of it is 

 to prevent surface-washing upon slopes and 

 ridges. Pete's plough left the field's face all 

 in little hills and valleys. He was not plough- 



