something and he gives an exclamation of disgust.] Hump! [With a provoking grin at his brother he reads aloud in a doleful, sing-song voice.] “I have loved wind and light and the bright sea. But holy and most sacred night, not as I love and have loved thee.” [He hands the book back.] Here! Take it and bury it. Give me a good magazine any time.
Robert—[With a trace of irritation.] The Farm Journal?
Andrew—Sure; anything sensible. I suppose it’s that year in college gave you a liking for that kind of stuff. I’m darn glad I stopped with High School, or maybe I’d been crazy too. [He grins and slaps Robert on the back affectionately.] Imagine me reading poetry and plowing at the same time. The team’d run away, I’ll bet.
Robert—[Laughing.] Or picture me plowing. That’d be worse.
Andrew—[Seriously.] Pa was right never to sick you onto the farm. You surely were never cut out for a farmer, that’s a fact,—even if you’d never been took sick. [With concern.] Say, how’d you feel now, anyway? I’ve lost track of you. Seems as if I never did get a chance to have a talk alone with you these days, ’count of the work. But you’re looking fine as silk.
Robert—Why, I feel great—never better.
Andrew—That’s bully. You’ve surely earned it. You certainly had enough sickness in the old days to last you the rest of your life.
