ith a fire still crackling in crimson tongues among the
stubble at the further end of it. Straw is worth nothing there, so a
little is cut with the ear, and the rest burned off in spring, while the
grasses growing and rotting for countless centuries have added to the rich
alluvial left by some inland sea which covered all the prairie when the
world was young. Nature, as those who love her know, is never in a hurry,
and very slowly, little by little, working on through forgotten ages, she
had stored her latent wealth under the matted sod against the time when
the plowshare should convert it into food for man and beast. There is no
wheat soil on the surface of the earth to beat that of Assiniboia and
Manitoba.

Harry leaned on the plow-stilts with a smile on his handsome sun-bronzed
face, and I smiled at him, for we were young and hope was strong within
us.

"Ralph, I feel a hankering after some old heathen ceremonial, a pouring
of wine upon it, or a garlanded priest to bless the fruitful earth," he
said, "but we put our trust in science and automatic binders now, and
disregard the powers of infinity until they smite the crop down with
devastating hail. Well, here's the first stroke for fortune. Get up! Aw
there, Stonewall!"

He tapped the big red ox with a pointed stick, the two beasts settled
their massive shoulders to the collar, and with a soft greasy swish and a
crackle of half-burnt stubble the moldboard rolled aside the loam. I too
felt that this was a great occasion. At last I was working my own land;
with the plowshare I was opening the gate of an unknown future; and my
fingers tingled as I jerked the lines. Then while the coulter sheared its
guiding line, and the trampling of hoofs mingled with the soft curl of
clods, they seemed by some trick of memory to hammer out words I had last
heard far away in the little weathered church under Starcross Moor, "And
preserve to our use the kindly fruits of the earth so as in due time we
may enjoy them."

There was a two-hours' rest at noonday, when we fared frugally on fried
potatoes and the usual reistit pork, while Harry's oxen waded deep into a
sloo, which is a lake formed by melting snow. Neither would they come out
for either threats or blandishments until he went in too, with a pike;
while Jasper's broncos, which were considerably less than half-tamed,
backed round and round in rings when I attempted to re-harness them.
Still, with laughter and banter we started