. . well . . . wait . . . I suppose you
want to be like Mrs. Wicket?"
"No, I don't," said Anna.
"Yes," said Mrs. Barly, in a shaking voice, "yes . . . wait . . .
you'll see a bit of something . . . a taste of the broom,
perhaps. . . ."
While the two women looked after the house, the hired men worked in the
fields, under the hot sun, their wet, cotton shirts open at the neck,
their faces shaded with wide straw hats. Farmer Barly leaned against
one side of a tumbled-down wooden fence, and old Mr. Crabbe against the
other.
"This year," said Farmer Barly, "I'm going to put up a silo in my barn.
And instead of straw to cover it, I'm going to plant oats on top."
"Go along," said Mr. Crabbe.
"Well, it's a fact," said Mr. Barly. "I'm building now, back of the
cows."
"Digging, you might say," corrected Mr. Crabbe.
"Building, by God," said Mr. Barly.
Mr. Crabbe tilted back his head and cast a look of wonder at the sky.
"A hole is a hole," he said finally.
"So it is," agreed Mr. Barly, "so it is.
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