in fields and vegetable gardens, where they had been
planting potatoes, setting out cabbages, and sowing turnips and
carrots.

The peasant simply had to stop and ask them what kind of potatoes
they were planting and just when they had sown their oats. At sight
of a calf or a foal, he at once began to figure out how old it was.
He calculated the number of cows they would be likely to keep at
such and such a farm, and wondered how much this or that colt would
fetch when broken.

The son tried time after time to turn his father's thought away
from such things. "I'm thinking that you and I will soon be
wandering through the valley of Sharon and the desert of Judea," he
said.

The father smiled, and his face brightened for a moment. "It will
indeed be a blessed privilege to walk in the footsteps of our dear
Lord Jesus," he answered. But the next minute, on seeing a couple
of cartloads of quicklime, his thoughts were diverted. "I say,
Gabriel, who do you suppose is hauling lime? Folks say that lime as
a fertilizer makes a rich crop. That will be something to feast
your eyes on in the fall."

"In the fall, father!" said the son reprovingly.

"Yes, I know," returned the farmer, "that by fall I shall be
dwelling in the tents of Jacob and labouring in the Lord's
vineyard."

"Amen!" cried the son. "So be it. Amen!"

Then they walked on in silence for a space, watching the signs of
spring. Water trickled in the ditches, and the road itself was
badly broken up from the spring rains. Whichever way they looked
there was work to be done. Every one wanted to turn to and help,
even when crossing some field other than his own.

"To tell the truth," said the farmer thoughtfully, "I wish I had
sold my property some fall, when the work was over. It's hard
having to leave it all in the springtime, just when you'd like to
take hold with might and main."

The son only shrugged; he knew that he would have to let the old
man talk.

"It's just thirty-one years now since I, as a young man, bought a
piece of waste land on the north side of this parish," said the
farmer. "The ground had never been touched by a spade. Half of it
was bog, the other half a mass of stones. It looked pretty bad. On
that very land I worked like a slave, digging up stones until my
back was ready to break. But I think I laboured even harder with
the swamp, before I finally got it drained and filled in."

"Yes, you have certainly worked hard, father," the son