the neck, and a soft, mud-stained hat pushed hack on his head. He stops to talk to Robert, leaning on the hoe he carries.
Andrew—[Seeing Robert has not noticed his presence—in a loud shout.] Hey there! [Robert turns with a start. Seeing who it is, he smiles.] Gosh, you do take the prize for day-dreaming! And I see you’ve toted one of the old books along with you. Want to bust your eyesight reading in this light?
Robert—[Glancing at the book in his hand with a rather shamefaced air.] I wasn’t reading—just then, Andy.
Andrew—No, but you have been. Shucks, you never will get any sense, Rob. [He crosses the ditch and sits on the fence near his brother.] What is it this time—poetry, I’ll bet. [He reaches for the book.] Let me see.
Robert—[Handing it to him rather reluctantly.] Yes, it’s poetry. Look out you don’t get it full of dirt.
Andrew—[Glancing at his hands.] That isn’t dirt—it’s good clean earth; but I’ll be careful of the old thing. I just wanted to take a peep at it. [He turns over the pages.]
Robert—[Slyly.] Better look out for your eyesight, Andy.
Andrew—Huh! If reading this stuff was the only way to get blind, I’d see forever. [His eyes read
