“There ain’t much difference in ’em, Mr. Heathcote. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. It’s getting uncommon close shaving for them wethers in the new paddock. They’re down upon the roots pretty well already.”
“There’s grass along the bush on the north side.”
“They won’t go there; it’s rank and sour. They won’t feed up there as long as they can live lower down and nearer the water. Weather like this, they’d sooner die near the water than travel to fill their bellies. It’s about the hottest day we’ve had, and the nights a’most hotter. Are you going to be out, Mr. Heathcote?”
“I think so.”
“What’s the good of it, Mr. Heathcote? There is no use in it. Lord love you, what can yon do? You can’t be every side at once.”
“Fire can only travel with the wind, Mr. Bates.”
“And there isn’t any wind, and so there can’t be any fire. I never did think, and I don’t think now, there ever was any use in a man fashing himself as you fash yourself. You can’t alter things, Mr. Heathcote.”
“But that’s just what I can do—what a man has to do. If a match were thrown there at your feet, and the grass was aflame, couldn’t you alter that by putting your foot on it? If you find a ewe on her back, can’t you alter that by putting her on her legs?”
“Yes, I can do that, I suppose.”
“What does a man live for except to alter things? When a man clears the forest and sows corn, does he not alter things?”