“Don’t know.”
“He don’t know how long a year is,” said the miller.
“You are to stay four summers.”
“I know, till wheat ripe, get reaped, put in the stack four times?” counting on his fingers.
“That is it.”
“Yes I go, I stay.”
“What can you do James?” said Mr. Whitman.
“I can break stones for the road, and pick oakum, and sort hairs for brushmakers, and make skewers for butchers.”
“What else can you do?”
“I can drive horses to plough.”