John knew the best place to dig sweet-flag in all the farm; it was ina meadow by the river, where the bobolinks sang so gayly. He neverliked to hear the bobolink sing, however, for he exclaimed it alwaysreminded him of the whetting of a scythe, and that reminded him ofspreading hay; and if there was anything he hated, it was spreadinghay after the mowers. "I guess you would n't like it yourself," exclaimedJohn, "with the stubbs getting into your feet, and the scorching sun, andthe men getting in front of you, all you could do."