noon
Already , in the clear morning air , one can hear the stutter and skip and cough of the tractors along the opalescent sky-line , accosting the morning sun with their rattle and tattle of harvests to be . And I intend to be in on the game . _ Sunday the Second _ I 'm too busy to puddle in spilt milk or worry over things that are past . I ca n't even take time to rhapsodize over the kitchen-cabinet to which Whinnie put the finishing touches to-day at noon , though I know it will save me many a step . Poor old Whinnie , I 'm afraid , is more a putterer than a plowman . He 's had a good deal of trouble with the tractor , and his lame foot seems to bother him , on account of the long hours , but he proclaims he 'll see me through . Tractor-plowing , I 'm beginning to discover , is n't the simple operation it sounds , for your land , in the first place , has to be staked off and marked with guidons , since you must know your measurements and have your headlands uniform and your furrows straight or there 'll be a woeful mix-up before you come to the end of your job .