"Go it, Dick. Let 'er out, Daisy. Stiddy, ol' boy. Whoa, there. Ease
down now. Hey, there, John, block the wheel--block the wheel I tell ye.
Ah-h now, jes' breathe a bit. I jing, it's hot."

And then the barn, the cavernous dark doors, the hoofs of the horses
thundering on the floor, the smell of cattle from below, the pigeons in
the loft whirring startled from their perches. Then the hot, scented,
dusty "pitching off" and "mowing in"--a fine process, an _honest_
process: men sweating for what they get.

As I came in from the field that night the sun was low in the hills,
and a faint breeze had begun to blow, sweetly cool after the burning
heat of the day. And I felt again that curious deep sense I have so
often here in the country, of the soundness and reality of the plain
things of life.



CHAPTER X


THE OLD STONE MASON

Of well-flavoured men, I know none better than those who live close to
the soil or work in common things. Men are like roses and lilacs, which,
too carefully cultivated to please the eye, lose something of their
native fragrance. One of the best-flavoured men I know is my friend, the
old stone mason.