“Do you call it hard work?” I asked.
“No, not very,” he answered. “Pitching hay from the stacks down onto it and pulling the bales away.”
“What will the farmer not get next?” I inquired of Franklin. “It seems that nearly all the heavy labor of the old days is gone.”
“It’s true,” he said. “I never saw a machine like this before. I’ve heard of them. All that they need now is a good, cheap traction plow and farming will be a weak man’s job—like golf—and twice as healthy.”
We climbed back.
Scudding along under green trees and through stretches of meadow and under a hot, almost baking sun, we came at last to various signs reading: “For Fine Dry Goods Visit Squibbs, South Side Square,” or “If You Want The Best Hardware In Sullivan Go To Beach & Gens.”
“Ha! then someone of the Beach family has gone into the hardware business,” I commented.
Presently a huge sign appeared hanging across the road. It read:
“Sullivan Welcomes You.”
“Imagine ‘dirty old Sullivan’ venturing to welcome anyone!” I commented, quoting my sister. “If she could only see that!” I added.