Old Joe finished fixing the harness and took hold of the handle of the plough, worn smooth with years of use. He reflected with a smile that many people might say the same of him. Little Joe was watching from the gate. He helped every day in the fields and the two were seen together so often that they had acquired the nicknames to distinguish the farmer from his twelve-year-old grandson. This gave the old man a glow of satisfaction, but didn’t make him miss his son any less.
Rooks rose and scattered and Old Joe looked up, puzzled. He knew what cars were of course, he wasn’t such a crusty stick-in-the-mud, but he was sure that this was the first time one had been along the road.
Little Joe stared transfixed at the dust-cloud in the vehicle’s wake, and Old Joe knew nothing would ever be the same again.