Nothing was kept in order. Nothing was preserved. The wagons stood
in the sun and rain, and the plows rusted in the fields. There was
no leisure, no feeling that the work was done. It was all labor and
weariness and vexation of spirit. The crops were destroyed by wandering
herds, or they were put in too late, or too early, or they were blown
down, or caught by the frost, or devoured by bugs, or stung by flies,
or eaten by worms, or carried away by birds, or dug up by gophers, or
washed away by floods, or dried up by the sun, or rotted in the stack,
or heated in the crib, or they all ran to vines, or tops, or straw, or
cobs. And when in spite of all these accidents that lie in wait between
the plow and reaper, they did succeed in raising a good crop and a high
price was offered, then the roads would be impassable. And when the
roads got good, then the prices went down. Everything worked together
for evil.