by the mountain of hay above them and nibbling at the tumbles as they go
by.

Then the proud moment when Bill the driver, with legs apart, almost
pushing on the reins, drives his horses up the hill.

"Go it, Dick. Let 'er out, Daisy. Stiddy, ol' boy. Whoa, there. Ease
down now. Hey, there, John, block the wheel--block the wheel I tell ye.
Ah-h now, jes' breathe a bit. I jing, it's hot."

And then the barn, the cavernous dark doors, the hoofs of the horses
thundering on the floor, the smell of cattle from below, the pigeons in
the loft whirring startled from their perches. Then the hot, scented,
dusty "pitching off" and "mowing in"--a fine process, an _honest_
process: men sweating for what they get.

As I came in from the field that night the sun was low in the hills,
and a faint breeze had begun to blow, sweetly cool after the burning
heat of the day. And I felt again that curious deep sense I have so
often here in the country, of the soundness and reality of the plain
things of life.

CHAPTER X

THE OLD STONE MASON

Of well-flavoured men, I know none better than those who live close to
the soil or work in common things. Men are like roses and lilacs, which,
too carefully cultivated to please the eye, lose something of their
native fragrance. One of the best-flavoured men I know is my friend, the
old stone mason.

To-day I rode over with the old stone mason to select some wide stones
for steps in my new building. The old man loves stones. All his life
long--he is now beyond seventy years old--he has lived among stones,
lifted stones, fitted stones. He knows all the various kinds, shapes,
sizes, and where they will go best in a wall. He can tell at a glance
where to strike a stone to make it fit a particular place, and out of a
great pile he can select with a shrewd eye the stone for the exact
opening he has to fill. He will run his stubby rough hand over a stone
and remark:

"Fine face that. Ye don't see many such stones these days," as though he
were speaking of the countenance of a friend.

I veritably believe there are stones that smile at him, stones that
frown at him, stones that appear good or ill-humoured to him as he bends
his stocky strong body to lift or lay them. He is a slow man, a slow,
steady, geologic man, as befits one who works with the elemental stuff
of nature. His arms are short and his hands powerful. He has been a
servant of stones in this neighbourhood alone for upward of fift