where it could be left without much danger; but, for that matter,
no man would have stayed in the field to attend to another man's hay
when there was a circus in the neighborhood.

Dixie was mowing on alone, listening as in a dream to that subtle
something in the swish of the scythe that makes one seek to know the song
it is singing to the grasses.


"Hush, ah, hush, the scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep;
Hush,--'t is the lullaby Time is singing,--
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass.
Hush, ah, hush! and the scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass."


And now, spent with fatigue and watching and care and grief,--
heart sick, mind sick, body sick, sick with past suspense
and present certainty and future dread,--he sat under the cool
shade of the nooning tree, and buried his face in his hands.
He was glad to be left alone with his miseries,--
glad that the other men, friendly as he felt them to be,
had gone to the circus, where he would not see or hear them
for hours to come.

How clearly he could conjure up the scene
that they were enjoying with such keen relish!