There, the wild grasses were chewed low. Chickens roamed freely near coops. A few sheep grazed on the coarse grass.
Richard used Tom's hatchet to cut some stout poles from young pines in the understory which he placed against the rock wall.
The gnarled old man gallantly offered me an arm at the top of the trail. I took it, deciding after one look down the precipitous decline that in spite of his age, he was likely steadier on his pins than I was.
Mrs. Baird waddled along at a brisk pace, asking no quarter from our younger limbs.
The five remaining huddled close to one another, rocking nervously side to side like a covey of quail before a bird dog.