Now as I went, pondering on true happiness, and the nature of it, I beheld a man ploughing in a field hard by, and, as he ploughed, he whistled lustily. And drawing near to the field, I sat down upon a gate and watched, for there are few sights and sounds I am fonder of than the gleam of the ploughshare and the sighing whisper it makes as it turns the fragrant loam.
"A truly noble occupation!" said I to myself, "dignified by the ages—ay—old, well nigh, as the green earth itself; no man need be ashamed to guide a plough."
And indeed a fine sight it made, the straining horses, the stalwart figure of the Ploughman, with the blue sky, the long, brown furrows, and, away and beyond, the tender green of leaves; while the jingle of the harness, the clear, merry, whistled notes, and the song of a skylark, high above our heads, all blended into a chorus it was good to hear.
As he came up to where I sat upon the gate, the Ploughman stopped, and, wiping the glistening moisture from his brow, nodded good-humoredly.
"A fine morning!" said I.
"So it be, sir, now you come to mention it, it do be a fine day surely."
"You, at least seem happy," said I.
"Happy?" he exclaimed, staring.
"Yes," said I.
"Well, I bean't."