Turnip-hoeing is an art, a fine art, demanding all the talents of high genius, a true eye, a sure hand, a sensitive conscience, industry, courage, endurance, and pride in achievement. These and other gifts are necessary to high success. Not to every man is it given to become a turnip-hoer in the truest sense of that word. The art is achieved only after long and patient devotion, and, indeed, many never attain high excellence. Of course, therefore, there are grades of artists in this as in other departments. There are turnip-hoers and turnip-hoers, just as there are painters and painters. It was Tim's ambition to be the first turnip-hoer of his district, and toward this end he had striven both last season and this with a devotion that deserved, if it did not achieve, success. Quietly he had been patterning himself upon that master artist, Perkins, who for some years had easily held the championship for the district. Keenly Tim had been observing Perkins' excellencies and also his defects; secretly he had been developing a style of his own, and, all unnoted, he had tested his speed by that of Perkins by adopting the method of lazily loafing along and then catching up by a few minutes of whirlwind work. Tim felt in his soul the day of battle could not be delayed past this season; indeed, it might come any day. The very thought of it made his slight body quiver and his heart beat so quickly as almost to choke him.
To the turnip field hied Haley's men, Perkins and Webster leading the way, Tim and Cameron bringing up the rear.
“You promised to show me how to do it, Tim,” said Cameron. “Remember I shall be very slow.”
“Oh, shucks!” replied Tim, “turnip-hoeing is as easy as rollin' off a log if yeh know how to do it.”
“Exactly!” cried Cameron, “but that is what I don't. You might give me some pointers.”
“Well, you must be able to hit what yeh aim at.”
“Ah! that means a good eye and steady hand,” said Cameron. “Well, I can do billiards some and golf. What else?”
“Well, you mustn't be too careful, slash right in and don't give a rip.”
“Ah! nerve, eh!” said Cameron. “Well, I have done some Rugby in my day—I know something of that. What else? This sounds good.”
“Then you've got to leave only one turnip in one place and not a weed; and you mustn't leave any blanks. Dad gets hot over that.”