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137 f r o m g o u r d s e e d h i g d o n c o v e Give it to the next fellow. Not the ten dollars, the help. No mistaking what he meant or saw the afternoon as, a fine chance. The 1965 tractor started up, though one of its brakes kept sticking, amusing him. I’d gotten as far as I could trying to find a new walk, to a gate bar across the road and backed back and onto soft shoulder, slid helplessly into the ditch, hopeless to maneuver out of. Walked to the nearest house. He came to the door still chewing his lunch, then went toward the barn, I making polite apology. You’re heading for that tractor, aren’t you? If it won’t start, we’ll get a horse. The man who wants no credit, or even to shake hands, too busy with what needs doing, holds his arms close in and sidles by me in the barn like I’m a ticklish passage, me holding out my money. Give it to the next fellow. There is a huge holly tree next to where I glided to a stop, a solid thigh-trunk white-splotched and stretching deep under the dishwater. Beauty, but not such as this man is, beyond any tree. ...

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