Rail fences

These seldom close in more than clover on a hillside that will never yield the fencer any treasure save a shallow stream's cool measure, or unless he counts the colors greens in summer and the yellows from burnt sumac to pale honey that are autumn's - more than money. Asking only for his fencing that is like his scrawled name lacing round a hillock or a bend without genesis or end, only right to walk when worry makes it needful to be wary. There are fences, propped and slanting to a field or hill's own sloping bear the signature and brand of a man who loves the land, not for what he may inherit of its harvest, but its spirit, and as one might love and make a token for love's own sweet sake.

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