and bran before a new herdsman might become convinced of their
unreadiness to turn the expensive feed into white gold; he had
not written down the dates when the sows were to farrow, and they
might have litters somewhere around the strawstack and crush half
the little pigs. His one hundred and seventy-five acres of wheat
had had north and south dead furrows, but he had learned that
this was a mistake in probably half the acreage, where they
should be east and west. It would make a great difference in the
drainage, but a new plowman might think this finickiness and just
go ahead and plow all of it north and south, or all of it east
and west and this would result in a lower yield--some parts of
the field would get soggy and the wheat might get a rust, and
other parts drain too readily, letting the ground become parched
and break into cakes, all of which might be prevented. And there
was all that manure, maker of big crops. He knew only too well
how other farmers let it pile up in the barnyard to be robbed by
the sun of probably twenty per cent of its strength. He figured
quickly how it would hurt the crops that he had made traditional
on Wade land. He considered these things, and they worried him,
made him realize what a serious thing was death, far more serious
than the average person let himself believe.

Martin had gone to the barn a week before to help a cow which was
aborting. It had enraged him when he thought what an alarming
thing this was--abortion among HIS cows--in Martin Wade's
beautiful herd! "God Almighty!" he had exclaimed, deciding as he
took the calf from the mother to begin doctoring her at once. He
would fight this disease before it could establish a hold.
Locking the cow's head in an iron stanchion, he had shed his
coat, rolled up his right sleeve almost to the shoulder, washed