He looked at me dully, but with a curious glint of fear in his eye, fear and anger, too.
“Did you see the sign down there? This land is posted.”
“Yes,” I said, “I have seen your signs. But let me ask you: If I were not here would you own this land any more than you do now? Would it yield you any better crops?”
It is never the way of those who live in posted enclosures, of whatever sort, to reason. They assert.
“This land is posted,” said the old man doggedly.
“Are you sure you own it?” I asked. “Is it really yours?”
“My father owned this farm before me,” he said, “and my grandfather cleared this field and built these walls. I was born in that house and have lived there all my life.”
“Well, then, I must be going—and I will not come here again,” I said. “I am sorry I walked on your land—”
I started to go down the hill, but stopped, and said, as though it were an afterthought:
“I have made some wonderful discoveries upon your land, and that hill there. You don't seem to know how valuable this field is.... Good-bye.”