An unmistakable dogged look came into Horace's face, the look inherited from generations of land-owning, home-defending, fighting ancestors. Horace is New England of New England.
“Yes,” I said, “I have already had two or three crops from that field.”
“Huh!” said Horace. “I've cut the grass and I've cut the rowen every year since you bin here. What's more, I've got the money fer it in the bank.”
He tapped his fingers on the top of the wall.
“Nevertheless, Horace,” said I, “I've got my crops, also, from that field, and a steady income, too.”
“What crops?”
“Well, Eve just now been gathering in one of them. What do you think of the value of the fleabane, and the daisies, and the yellow five-finger in that field?”
“Huh!” said Horace.
“Well, I've just been cropping them. And have you observed the wind in the grass—and those shadows along the southern wall? Aren't they valuable?”
“Huh!” said Horace.