There was a brisk
wind, and the gay colored wings of the windmill blew furiously
round and round, pumping out into the tank below a stream of
water so swift and strong, that as the men crowded around, wetting
and sharpening their knives, they got well spattered, and had much
merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into the spray.
A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung
from the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which
the fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground
at the foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. "We'll
fill more than those before night, Senor Felipe," he said. He was in
his element, Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for
the somewhat monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held
no better feast for his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales
of fleece, tied, stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn
away to the mills. "Now, there is something substantial," he
thought; "no chance of wool going amiss in market!"
If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the
next six months.
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