A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the very
weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal ironing,
mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how hot it was.
The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet on the floor--the
child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the slip-rails.

Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days.
The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two
draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to keep
the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for him--which
the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly refused to drink;
and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up and go on with the
ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of mesmerism, but he used to
stand for long intervals dumbly staring the old horse full in the eyes
till in a commanding voice he would bid him, "Get up!" But Farmer lacked
the patriotism of the back-block poets. He was obdurate, and not once did
he "awake," not to mention "arise".

This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put down
the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shouting angrily. A
flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from a tree close by.
Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the animal's eyes was gone
and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he sat down and hid his face
in his big rough hands.

"CAW, CAW!" came from the tree.

Dad rose and looked up.