He wears breeches and gaiters, and a blue coat cut in the style of two generations since.

There is a small clear space in the midst of the well-dressed throng.

There he stands, and for the moment the hum is hushed.
For sixty years that old man laboured upon one farm; sixty years of ploughing and sowing, sixty harvests.

What excitement, what discoveries and inventions--with what giant strides the world has progressed while he quietly followed the plough! An acknowledgment has been publicly awarded to him for that long and faithful service.

He puts forth his arm; his dry, horny fingers are crooked, and he can neither straighten nor bend them.
Not the least sign appears upon his countenance that he is even conscious of what is passing.