A drop of sweat hung on Uncle Jolly’s chin.

“Jumping Josie!” he said. “This fence-rail beast would pull you clear over the plow handles.”

“Now, no,” I said. “I’m a-mind to learn.”

He grinned, scratching into the thick of his hair. “A chap never larnt too young,” he said. “Just you fotch a jug of spring water, then I’ll try you a furrow.” He hung the reins about his neck and leveled the plow. He dug a shoe toe into the black dirt. “Aye, God, this land’ll make,” he said. “It’s rich as sin.”

I brought the jug of water. Uncle Jolly crooked a finger in its ear, swinging it upon his shoulder. He drank loud swallows. Water ran down his neck; it drained thread streams under his collar. He lowered the jug and stuck his tongue out. “Seems a bull frog’s swum here,” he said. “Hit’s sort o’ wild.” He took another long drink. I reckon he drank a quart. “I allus liked a wild taste—the wilder the better,” he said.

“What’s this mule’s name?” I asked.

Uncle Jolly sat the jug by. “Banged if I know,” he vowed. “Luce told me, but I can’t recollect. Ought to be named Simon Brawl, he’s so feisty.”

A flock of goldfinches circled the new ground, their gay song sowing the air. Per-chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree. They settled at the field’s edge and it was as if the dry stickweeds had suddenly burst yellow blooms. They pecked at seed heads; they rattled empty pods of milkweed stalks.

Uncle Jolly glanced over the plowed land. The furrows were straight as a measure, running end to end without a bob. “Hain’t many folks know how to tend dirt proper,” he said. “A mighty spindling few. Land a-wasting and a-washing. Up and down Troublesome Creek, it’s the same. Timber cut off and hills eating down. Hit’s alike all over, Boone’s Fork, Little Carr, Quicksand, Beaver Creek, Big Leatherwood. . . .”

“I want to learn proper,” I said.

“What’s folks going to live on when these hills wear down to a nub?” Uncle Jolly complained. He lifted the plow, setting the point into the ground. I stood there, not knowing what to do. “Best you walk betwixt the handles and get the lay,” he said. I got between, holding the crosspiece. Uncle Jolly grasped the handle ends and clucked. The mule didn’t move. He whistled and shouted, but the mule paid no mind. Uncle Jolly grinned. “This fool beast won’t move lessen you call his name, and that I can’t remember.” He tried a string of them. “Git along, Jack! Pete! Lead-foot! John!” He reached down and caught up a handful of dirt, throwing it on the mule’s back. The mule started, skin shivers quivering his flanks. “It’s like that every time I stop,” Uncle Jolly said. “A horse-mule stubs pine-blank like a man.”