He had a thick crop of black hair--shaggy, unkempt, and full
of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head were two
old felt hats--one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt made from
a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding up and down
it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; they were a
problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No ordinary person
would consider himself out of work while in them. And the new-comer was
no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of the world upon him;
he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in the wet.
In the yard was a large heap of firewood--remarkable truth!--which Dad
told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang
again--particularly when it left the handle--and pieces of wood scattered
everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for a while, then went with Dave
to pull corn.
For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother
came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was
delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and apologised
for having no sugar to put in it.
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