The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1900-03-29

q bottle of milk to wash 1t down. and
he could tell pretty well from The sun
when noontime came. From his linz,
of burrows he could see his uncle toll
ing across and back, never stopping for
anything, a brown figure In the brown
stretches of upturned earth.
He made up his mind that blowing
was desperately monotonous work and
that to pillow a straight furrow was
something that only came from long
practice. He had stake stuck up for
his benefit at each end of the field but
his pillow either wabbled or the mules
"wee-wawed" frightfully, for before
noontime came he found 1t necessary
to lift the pillow up and cash down Ger
tain inlets and estuaries of land which
had not been cut on account of the per-
versity of the burrows. BY the time
the sun had swung into line for about
1890 he had come to the conclusion
that all boy needed to pillow well with
was a pair of iron legs and a knowl-
edge of how to draw a furrow straight.
He unhitched the team with some diff.
Guilty and gave them a feed of oats on
the bottom of the sack. Then he got
out his own dinner of bread and but
ter, meat and pickles, and fell on it
like a famished coyote. He was very
tired. The dirt had got into his finger
nails, crept into his curly brown hair,
grmed his neck filled his ears and en-
Uttered his boyish soul His curiosity
was thoroughly satisfied He had be-
wanted to hunt
However, he remembered that it
would be cowardly TO give up until
night. So he started in to hitch up the
mules again after taking a decent rest.
Fortunately he could do this without
having to summon his uncle, and he
congratulated himself on being able to
hitch and unhitch team. The pillow
again was driven into the loan, and
once more the burden of hanging on TO
a pair of slippery pillow handles with a
couple of energetic mules striding
along in front was begun. The black
birds and kildees, allured by the feast
worms. came again to the burrows, but
the boy only took a shot now and then.
He was doggedly, sullenly, silently
plugging along in the furrow, with the
sand grittng between his teeth. He
wouldn't offer to pillow again for Uncle
Tom. Uncle Tom knew what he was
talking about when he said it was
hard work and dirty work until you
got used to it. Well, he didn't want TO
get used to it, that was all. What was
that story about cells getting used 10
being skinned? Whoa, jimmy; back.
you old yellow crate, you,
AT shutdown and not until he saw
Uncle Tom turn for the house did the
boy give over. But he had seen the
error of his way. Flowing wasn't what
1t was cracked up to be. There were
too many sand burs and roots and
crooked burrows and dirt and wrench
es and backaches about 1t. There WAS
too much work about it. Why, when
you saw Il man who was used to it you
could believe that he might strap him
self to a pillow and go to sleep on the
job. But for new beginner at the
business it was like Jordan, "a hard
road to travel"
Uncle Tom smiled at the grimy, dus-
ty figure of his nephew as he met him
at the house. How'd you like the
plowing?" he inquired quizzically.
The boy took nine blackbirds and
three kildees from his pockets and,
holding them up. said. II like that part
of it. Uncle Tom, and all the rest /
didn't like worth a ent."-Chicago
Record