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Updated: May 6, 2025
Stanley, who was a forehanded worker, found a job for all of us in the barn. Ben, the younger son, and I sharpened mower-blades and a scythe or so, Ben turning the grindstone and I holding the blades and telling him stories into the bargain. Mr. Stanley and his stout older son overhauled the work-harness and tinkered the corn-planter.
"You hadn't a hundred dollars left." "Didn't I tell you I had credit? Well, I have. I stood 'm off for them wagons. I ain't spent a cent of cash money to-day except for a couple of long-distance switches. Then I bought three sets of work-harness they're chain harness an' second-hand for twenty dollars a set. I bought 'm from the fellow that's doin' the haulin' for the quarry.
I remember a renter riding his plough horse in its ploughing gears; great wooden hames, broad breeching, and rusty trace chains rattling and clanking with every stride of the heavy horse; the renter in his patched and mud-smeared clothes, work-harness too. A genius might have painted him and gotten into his picture the full measure of relentless destiny and the abominable indifference of nature.
He strode back into the corral, sought out an old harness and a huge collar, and dragged them forward into the trail. Flinging them aside in the direction of the cart, he then turned to the mare, removed the work-harness from her, and led her into position before the warlike vehicle.
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