It was a hot, sultry day in the last of July, one of those Eastern summer days when the air presses heavily down on the stifling country fields, and in every farmyard the chickens scratch deep on the shady side of buildings, looking for cool earth to lie upon, panting. "This weather won't hold long," William Ford said that morning, giving the big bay a friendly slap and fastening the trace as she stepped over. "We'd better get the hay under cover before night."…
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