he is
marvellously clad, as befits the gallant that he really is, but this
morning he wore a faded shirt and one of his suspender cords behind was
fastened with a nail instead of a button. His socks are sometimes pale
blue and sometimes lavender and commonly, therefore, he turns up his
trouser legs so that these vanities may not be wholly lost upon a dull
world. His full name is Richard Tecumseh Sheridan, but every one calls
him Dick. A good, cheerful fellow, Dick, and a hard worker. I like him.

"Hello, Dick," I shouted.

"Hello yourself, Mr. Grayson," he replied.

He hung his scythe in the branches of a pear tree and we both turned
into the barnyard to get the chores out of the way. I wanted to delay
cutting as long as I could--until the dew on the clover should begin--at
least--to disappear.

By half-past-seven we were ready for work. We rolled back our sleeves,
stood our scythes on end and gave them a final lively stoning. You could
hear the brisk sound of the ringing metal pealing through the still
morning air.

"It's a great day for haying," I said.

"A dang good one," responded the laconic Dick, wetting his thumb to feel
the edge of his scythe.

I cannot convey with any mere pen upon any mere paper the feeling of
jauntiness I had at that moment, as of conquest and fresh adventure, as
of great things to be done in a great world! You may say if you like
that this exhilaration was due to good health and the exuberance of
youth. But it was more than that--far more. I cannot well express it,
but it seemed as though at that moment Dick and I were stepping out into
some vast current of human activity: as though we had the universe
itself behind us, and the warm regard and approval of all men.

I stuck my whetstone in my hip-pocket, bent forward and cut the first
short sharp swath in the clover. I swept the mass of tangled green stems
into the open space just outside the gate. Three or four more strokes
and Dick stopped whistling suddenly, spat on his hands and with a lively
"Here she goes!" came swinging in behind me. The clover-cutting had
begun.

At first I thought the heat would be utterly unendurable, and, then,
with dripping face and wet shoulders, I forgot all about it. Oh, there
is something incomparable about such work--the long steady pull of
willing and healthy muscles, the mind undisturbed by any disquieting
thought, the feeling of attainment through vigorous effort! It was a
steady swing and swis