too gently on his feet; always there was a herd to be brought in
and udders to be emptied. It made no difference to Martin that
the daily walk to and from the district school was long, and left
no spare time; it made no difference that the long hours at his
lessons left the boy longing for play--always there was the herd,
twice a day, cows and cows without end.

At twelve, Bill was plowing behind four heavy horses. He could
run a mower, and clean a pasture of weeds in a day. He could
cultivate and handle the manure spreader. In the hot, blazing
sun, he could shock wheat behind Martin, who sat on the binder
and cut the beautiful swaying gold. There wasn't a thing he could
not do, but there was not one that he did with a willing heart.
His dreams were all of escape from this grinding, harsh farm. It
seemed to him that it was as ruthless as his father; that
everything it demanded of him was, at best, just a little beyond
his strength. If there was a lever to be pulled on the disk, very
likely it was rusted and refused to give unless he yanked until
he was short of breath and his heart beat fast; four horses were
so unruly and hard to keep in place; the gates were all so
heavy--they were not easy to lift and then drag open. It was such
a bitter struggle every step of the way. It was so hard to plow
as deeply as he was commanded. It was so wearing to make the seed
bed smooth enough to measure up to his father's standard. Never
was there a person who saw less to love about a farm than this
son of Martin's. He even ceased to take any interest in the
little colts.

"You used to be foolish about them," Martin taunted, "cried
whenever I broke one."