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home. Jocelyn has a right." "I hate it, EMe." "You've got to do it all the same." "I hate it/' "If vou don't do it, you'll have more to hate later," she said. Sawyer turned as if to walk away, but he stopped after two or three steps and stood silently. Finally he came again to the porch steps. "I guess I'll have to shake hands with you, Mr. Brinegar," he said, "I guess I really don't have a choice." "You have a choice," said Brinegar, trying to make a tone of kindness override excited relief, "and you're making the right one. I'm sorry it's been hard, but at least you'll have a pile of money. I'll arrange for it to be seventeen hundred, only I wish you wouldn't tell your neighbors." The two men shook hands, and Brinegar got into his car to drive away. As soon as he started out of the yard, the girl came out of the house and put her arms around her father, who hugged her shortly in return and then walked to the edge of the yard to watch the sun drop below the rim of the hollow. When he returned to the house for supper, his face showed no sign of distress. The Dew at North Ace Dew remains all day in the north field, on the far side, enormous capsules and bulbs lined up on each blade of orchard grass and crabgrass, white and cold even at noon, even at midaftemoon, near the woods where the weeds and grass are never dry but lush and loaded with lit seeds and clear sacs, as though knowing the daylight is a stranger, is a temporary intrusion on this wet, cold, dew-anointed comer of creation's long day. -Robert Morgan New Organ Without a dollar in the house he offered the peddler sixty bushels of his finest sweet potatoes, then seventy, eighty, and the deal was inked. A season he'd given to the yield of those great milky nuggets in the red clay, crisp and delicate as glands, fat twists of gold below the white convolvulus vines shawling on the hillside. He picked each swollen root from the soil like a note and filled the basket eight times, and then his wagon, thinking one hamper for each key, the milk becoming the strains of music from the bellows inside the chest, as Wessie pulled die stops and pedalled, walking as she played, stepping on the red carpet treadles to the edge of another weather to look over. The lungs inside seemed a big harmonica, a louder accordion. He frowned and never spoke approval as the family sang and the young gathered to the heat of his labor transmuted into a movement of the air, a stir of air in the shudder and bream of the pedals and a dance of color in sadness of the hymn's expectations, in the gathering of voices and light and shade of the fireplace, now the hillside was frozen over and snow shawling over the clay, and rows hard as a file's ridges, each line become a phrase inside as the carpet wore out on the pedals as from a long pilgrimage. -Robert Morgan ...

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