Kenny, at a loose end, kept the farm in ferment, evading the work Garry
had sent him, by a conscientious effort to assist others. He was glad he
could paint if the mood seized him. Denied the opportunity he knew he
would have fretted. There was one singular, inexplicable thing about
work. If there was work at hand, one could always find something else to
do, attractive and absorbing. If there wasn't work to do, the sheer
shock of it seemed to dull you into mental vacuity and loose ends of time
came up and hit you in the face. Garry had written something or other
like that sarcastically in a letter.

He helped Hannah churn and sang with a soft brogue, to her abashed
delight, a song he called "The Gurgling of the Churn." He helped Hetty
milk the roan cow and sang while Hetty's apple-cheeks bloomed redder, an
exquisite folk tune of a pretty girl who milked a cow in Ireland. Later
in the summer he even helped Hughie rake the hay and had a song for that.
As Hannah said, he seemed to have songs for everything and what he
couldn't sing he could play with dazzling skill on the old piano.

"There's 'lectricity," said Hannah, "in the very air."

"I wished," grumbled Hughie, "he'd put it in the ground instid. The air
don't need it. Workin' a farm like this on shares is like goin' to a
picnic behind old Nellie and startin' late. You just know you won't git
there. What ground up here ain't worked out is hills and stones and
hollers."

Hannah sighed.

Kenny knew with regret that he might have been a helpful factor in the
work of the farm but for a number of unforeseen reasons. When he churned