So I disliked those caterpillars.
For I always had played among the corn. Untold miles I have
ridden the plough horses across the spring fields, where mellow
mould rolled black from the shining shares, and the perfumed air
made me feel so near flying that all I seemed to need was a high
start to be able to sail with the sentinel blackbird, that perched
on the big oak, and with one sharp 'T'check!' warned his feeding
flock, surely and truly, whether a passing man carried a gun or
a hoe. Then came the planting, when bare feet loved the cool
earth, and trotted over other untold miles, while little fingers
carefully counted out seven grains from the store carried in my
apron skirt, as I chanted:
"One for the blackbird, one for the crow;
One for the cutworm and four to grow."
Then father covered them to the right depth, and stamped each hill
with the flat of the hoe, while we talked of golden corn bread,
and slices of mush, fried to a crisp brown that cook would make in
the fall. We had to plant enough more to feed all the horses, cattle,
pigs, turkeys, geese, and chickens, during the long winter, even if
the sun grew uncomfortably warm, and the dinner bell was slow about
ringing.
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