Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.
What was there wrong?
Something you said just now.
What did I say?
About our taking pains.
To cock the hay?—because it’s going to shower?