we went again to the potato-field, and part of the time I helped
plant a few remaining rows, and part of the time I drove a team
attached to a wing-plow to cover the planting of the previous
day.

In the afternoon a slashing spring rain set in, and Mr. Stanley,
who was a forehanded worker, found a job for all of us in the
barn. Ben, the younger son, and I sharpened mower-blades and a
scythe or so, Ben turning the grindstone and I holding the blades
and telling him stories into the bargain. Mr. Stanley and his
stout older son overhauled the work-harness and tinkered the
corn-planter. The doors at both ends of the barn stood wide open,
and through one of them, framed like a picture, we could see the
scudding floods descend upon the meadows, and through the other,
across a fine stretch of open country, we could see all the roads
glistening and the treetops moving under the rain.

"Fine, fine!" exclaimed Mr. Stanley, looking out from time to
time, "we got in our potatoes just in the nick of time."

After supper that evening I told them of my plan to leave them on
the following morning.

"Don't do that," said Mrs. Stanley heartily; "stay on with us."

"Yes," said Mr. Stanley, "we're shorthanded, and I'd be glad to
have a man like you all summer. There ain't any one around here
will pay a good man more'n I will, nor treat 'im better."

"I'm sure of it, Mr. Stanley," I said, "but I can't stay with