For generations his forbears had plowed on the
top of that hill. John did not know how many. The hills were very old;
it might have been always.
He scarcely looked to see if his furrow was going straight. The work
he was doing was so much in his blood that he could almost feel if
furrows were straight or not. Year after year they moved on the same
old landmarks; thorn trees and briars mostly guided the plow, where
they stood on the untamed land beyond; the thorn trees grew old at
their guiding, and still the furrows varied not by the breadth of a
hoof-mark.
John, as he plowed, had leisure to meditate on much besides the crops;
he knew so much of the crops that his thoughts could easily run free
from them; he used to meditate on who they were that lived in briar
and thorn tree, and danced as folk said all through midsummer night,
and sometimes blessed and sometimes harmed the crops; for he knew that
in Old England were wonderful ancient things, odder and older things
than many folks knew. And his eyes had leisure to see much beside the
furrows, for he could almost feel the furrows going straight.
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