Ernest Pérochon

“ Behind the plough a thousand little vapours rose, individual, separate, feathery; they seemed to be trying to rise high above the earth, as if glad to escape from the weight of the clods. Then they floated down again and settled at last, like drowsy plumes. The slanting breath of the oxen kept ahead of the team and, rising, covered the six animals with a whiter vapour, through which danced whirls of flies.
Wag-tails were fluttering from furrow to furrow; those nearest looking like fussy, coquettish little ladies, the others being nothing more than drifting flakes of mist. ”

“ I don't want to boast about her, Corbier, but speaking of a woman's strength, there aren't many stronger than her in these parts. Now I'm off.—You've got a fine piece of land there!—Good-bye!"
As the man disappeared, Corbier righted his plough and started on a new furrow. But he was unable to keep his thoughts on his animals and his work. Instead, they now strayed toward things disturbing and sad. This meeting had stirred him as his plough stirred the soil. A mist settled over his heart, a heavy mist through which the sun did not shine and where no birds fluttered. ”

“ A widower at thirty, he found himself alone with a farm to manage and two babies on his hands. Of course, he still had his father with him, but the old man was so often crippled with rheumatism that he was rather a drag than a help. ”