To a twelve-year-old boy it seems to be the worst job in the world.
All day while the hawks wheel and dip in the glorious air, and the trees glow like banks of roses; all day, while the younger boys are tumbling about the sunlit straw, to be forced to stand holding sacks, like a convict, was maddening.

Daddy, whose rugged features, bent shoulders and ragged cap loomed through the suffocating, blinding dust, necessarily came to seem like the jailer who held the door to freedom.
And when the dust and noise and monotony seemed the very hardest to bear the old man's cackling laugh was sure to rise above the howl of the cylinder.
"Nem mind, sonny! Chaff ain't pizen; dust won't hurt ye a mite." And when Milton was unable to laugh the old man tweaked his ear with his leathery thumb and finger.
Then he shouted long, disconnected yarns, to which Milton could make neither head nor tail, and which grew at last to be inaudible to him, just as the steady boom and snarl of the great machine did.

Then he fell to studying the old man's clothes, which were a wonder to him.

He spent a good deal of time trying to discover which were the original sections of the coat, and especially of the vest, which was ragged and yellow with age, with the cotton-batting working out; and yet Daddy took the greatest care of it, folding it carefully and putting it away during the heat of the day out of reach of the crickets.
One of his peculiarities, as Mrs.Jennings learned on the second day, was his habit of coming to breakfast.

But he always earned all he got, and more too; and, as it was probable that his living at home was frugal, Mrs.Jennings smiled at his thrift, and quietly gave him his breakfast if he arrived late, which was not often.
He had bought a little farm not far away, and settled down into a mode of life which he never afterward changed.