In two long rows, the great heads of
the cattle turned hungrily, lowing and sniffing deep, breathing harshly,
stamping, as the fodder cart came down the lines. What a splendidly
wholesome work for a lad, growing up with his roots in the soil, in these
massive simple forces of life. What of Edith's other children? Would they
be willing to stay here long? Each morning Roger breakfasted with Bruce the
baby by his side. "What a thing for you, little lad," he thought, "if you
could live here all your days. But will you? Will you want to stay? Won't
you, too, get the fever, as I did, for the city?" In the joyous, shining,
mysterious eyes of the baby he found no reply. He had many long talks with
Betsy, who was eager to go away to school, and with Bob and little Tad who
were going to school in the village that fall. And the feeling came to
Roger that surely he would see these lives, at least for many years ahead.
They were so familiar and so real, so fresh and filled with hopes and
dreams. And he felt himself so a part of them all.
But one morning, climbing the steep upper field to a spring George wanted
to show him, Roger suddenly swayed, turned faint. He caught hold of a
boulder on the wall and held himself rigid, breathing hard. It passed, and
he looked at his grandson. But George had noticed nothing. The boy had
turned and his brown eyes were fixed on a fallow field below. Wistfully
Roger watched his face.
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