y, I'd just like to be
the one to fix Uncle Si. Stingy old fellow! I'd make him pay mother what
he owes her. Guess he knows it, an' that's why he looks at me so sour,
and tells father to 'keep him at the plough; he'll never come to nuthin'
moonin' over them lyin' lawyer books.'"

John smiled, with a bright, mischievous look, as if he had already won
the case against his uncle.

Then he whistled till he came to the end of the swath. He liked the
sweet, fresh smell that rose from the cut grass.

"I know farming is good, useful work," he thought, "and pleasant, when
any one likes it; but I want to do what I can do best, and I'm sure it's
law. When things happen, I want to know how they happen, and who was
wrong, and how to fix things so that they'll happen right. It just makes
me tingle all over when I can get hold of a case, and read up all about
it, and I can talk it over with, mother. She's smarter'n a steel-trap,
and might have been a lawyer herself. But I can't show off to father at
all. He shuts right down on me so--almost makes me think I don't know
anything, after all. He's a real good father, though, and I hate to
disappoint him."

John set his lips, and his young face looked troubled. He cut the swath
very neatly to the edge of the brook as he went along.

"I told him I'd say no more about it now," John went on thinking, as he
looked at the pretty rippling stream, which kept up such a merry little
song over its round pebbles, "and I promised him I'd stick to the farm
for this year, and do my best to like it, and so I will. Mother said,
'It isn't because he doesn't like you to be a lawyer; it's because he
thinks you aren't old enough to judge, and he thinks good farming is the
best and noblest work in the world, and that you can't help liking it if
you try. But he won't stand in your way a moment, my boy, when he sees
that you know your own mind. You just yield to him first, and he'll
yield to you last.'"

[Illustration: NOON-TIME IN THE MEADOW.]

It was nearing noon, and the sun was hot. John lifted his hat just
enough to wipe his forehead; then resting the scythe upon the bank, he
leaned against its curving handle. He looked well as he stood there,
like a boy who would one day be a man of purpose, and will to carry out
his purpose. He was tired, just tired enough to make rest sweet. He
looked across the little hollow at the foot of the meadow toward his
home. He was very hungry, and glad to see a little