North of Boston by Robert Frost
page 41 of 72 (56%)
page 41 of 72 (56%)
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What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once: I was up here in Salem at a man's Named Sanders with a gang of four or five Doing the haying. No one liked the boss. He was one of the kind sports call a spider, All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy From a humped body nigh as big's a biscuit. But work! that man could work, especially If by so doing he could get more work Out of his hired help. I'm not denying He was hard on himself. I couldn't find That he kept any hours--not for himself. Daylight and lantern-light were one to him: I've heard him pounding in the barn all night. But what he liked was someone to encourage. Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing-- Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off. I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks (We call that bulling). I'd been watching him. So when he paired off with me in the hayfield To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble. I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders Combed it down with a rake and says, 'O. K.' Everything went well till we reached the barn With a big catch to empty in a bay. You understand that meant the easy job For the man up on top of throwing down The hay and rolling it off wholesale, |
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