You grow wheat and I grind it, and both mak' money.' "My fat'er say: 'I got no plow, no binder, no thresher.' Gaviller say: 'I bring them in for you.' Gaviller say: 'I pay you two-fifty bushel for wheat.

I can do it up here.

You pay me for the machines a little each year.' "My fat'er t'ink about it.

He is not moch for farm.

But he t'ink, well, some day there is no more fur.