He liked this strange man who understood and considered him.
The man led the ox to the roadside, and standing by the beast's shoulder, set his knee against the bank. The little boy put his foot on the man's knee, caught hold of the ox's shoulder, and climbed up onto the sack of corn. He panted with the effort.
“Berry's everlastin' big,” he observed in comment. Then he set himself squarely on the sack.
“We're goin' to mill,” he said. “Where are you goin'?”
“If you don't mind,” replied the man, “I shall go along with you and Berry.”
The tiny chest expanded.
“I don't mind,” he said, “ner Berry don't neither.”
Then, as a sort of condescension, as a sort of return for the man's kindness, he gravely handed down the bit of ancient rope.
“An' you k'n lead Berry if you want to.”
They crossed the low gap and began to descend the mountain on the other side. The man walked in front with the rope in his hand, the ox followed with a slow, roiling gait, his head lowered, the child sitting astride the sack of corn. The sun seemed to linger on the crest of the mountain as though loath, now, to withdraw wholly from the world, a vagrant breeze began to move idly in the tree tops, a faint haze to gather over the forests, below the sun, as though it were some visible odor arising from the earth.