A little farther on they saw below them a wretchedly bad road winding
through the forest. It was narrow and zigzag, hilly and stony, and cut
up by brooks in many places. As they flew over it the eagle knew that
the boy was wondering what was carted over a road like that.
"Over this road the harvest was conveyed to the stack," the eagle said.
The boy recalled what fun they had at home when the harvest wagons
drawn by two sturdy horses, carried the grain from the field. The man
who drove sat proudly on top of the load; the horses danced and pricked
up their ears, while the village children, who were allowed to climb
upon the sheaves, sat there laughing and shrieking, half-pleased,
half-frightened. But here the great logs were drawn up and down steep
hills; here the poor horses must be worked to their limit, and the
driver must often be in peril. "I'm afraid there has been very little
cheer along this road," the boy observed.
The eagle flew on with powerful wing strokes, and soon they came to a
river bank covered with logs, chips, and bark. The eagle perceived that
the boy wondered why it looked so littered up down there.
"Here the harvest has been stacked," the eagle told him.
The boy thought of how the grain stacks in his part of the country were
piled up close to the farms, as if they were their greatest ornaments,
while here the harvest was borne to a desolate river strand, and left
there.
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