The old crock lunged out behind and gave a hop into the air—the preliminaries to starting.
At last they got going again.... Slowly, very slowly, the ploughshare pushed up the wet earth. The horse pulled itself together and strained at the harness until the traces quivered; it lunged with its legs and threw its weight forward, making the plough go faster and faster, so that the little man had to hurry to keep pace, and once or twice had to run.
Things went like a house afire for about twenty yards; then the horse stopped abruptly—time for another rest!
“First-rate!” thought the crofter—and rested also.
Thus, each perfectly understanding the other, they ploughed away patiently the whole day long....
One evening the crofter stopped earlier than usual.... The heavens were ablaze and the horizon seethed with flame; the last remnants of day were being cremated!
Having settled his assistant comfortably in the stall, he set out over the hill to a meadow where he had grazing rights.
A little later he appeared again leading a small red cow-calf, his bent back and bowed legs silhouetted gnome-like against the sunset.
The weather was too cold now, besides being too rough and stormy, to leave young cattle out after dark!