"Joke on me if I'd a-tumbled over in this mud," she muttered.
She entered the barn, and came out a minute later, carefully closing and buttoning the door, and started down the line fence toward the river.
Half-way across the field Abram saw her coming. No need to recount how often he had looked in that direction during the afternoon. He slapped the lines on the old gray's back and came tearing down the slope, his eyes flashing, his cheeks red, his hands firmly gripping the plow that rolled up a line of black mould as he passed.
Maria, staring at his flushed face and shining eyes, recognized that his whole being proclaimed an inward exultation.
"Abram Johnson," she solemnly demanded, "have you got the power?"
"Yes," cried Abram, pulling off his old felt hat, and gazing into the crown as if for inspiration. "You've said it, honey! I got the power! Got it of a little red bird! Power o' spring! Power o' song! Power o' love! If that poor little red target for some ornery cuss's bullet can get all he's getting out o' life to-day, there's no cause why a reasonin' thinkin' man shouldn't realize some o' his blessings. You hit it, Maria; I got the power. It's the power o' God, but I learned how to lay hold of it from that little red bird. Come here, Maria!"
Abram wrapped the lines around the plow handle, and cautiously led his wife to the fence. He found a piece of thick bark for her to stand on, and placed her where she would be screened by a big oak. Then he stood behind her and pointed out the sumac and the female bird.
"Jest you keep still a minute, an' you'll feel paid for comin' all right, honey," he whispered, "but don't make any sudden movement."
"I don't know as I ever saw a worse-lookin' specimen 'an she is," answered Maria.
"She looks first-class to him. There's no kick comin' on his part, I can tell you," replied Abram.