"I think it has set a mark on you.

I believe I can trace it.

Your forehead, brow, and eyes bear the lines and the appearance of all experience, all comprehension, but your lips are those of a very young lad.

I shouldn't be surprised if I had that kiss ready for you, and I really believe I can make it worth while." "Oh good Lord!" cried the Harvester, turning a backward somersault over the railing and starting in big bounds up the drive toward the stable.
He passed around it and into the woods at a rush and a few seconds later from somewhere on the top of the hill his strong, deep voice swept down, "Glory, glory hallelujah!" He sang it through at the top of his lungs, that majestic old hymn, but there was no music at all, it was simply a roar.

By and by he came soberly to the barn and paused to stroke Betsy's nose.
"Stop chewing grass and listen to me," he said.