33 ROBERT CLINTON Harkton’s Hundred or A Wind in the Minagaroons • I walked by Harkton’s Hundred where the froyn and the quirts are flowering, and I’ve never seen greener dewstein than what flows over Harkton’s pastures. The lazy and poignant froyn deploys in its tissues and twigs a scented air, distantly, faint copy of the flowers, but it says you come here and leads you to the southeast corner where it was pridefully set by Dissenters. Busily it spin-sings its grey and white flowers: froyn’s fragrance comes in a private coach. I felt scent-induced vertigo, standing so close. Quirts, or hackroot, a tough blooming hedge, has got Harkton’s Hundred onto its grid, bounding his fields in sharp straight lines. Quirts comes to spring in a scarlet coat of tiny odorless florets; the coat falls in May and here are the little quirts leaves, simple hearts of bright green, mint-smelling, liking well to be pruned in the fall: politely a fence. And the dewstein is deep and constant on Harkton’s lawns and pastures. It roars and rolls everywhere, burying tree stumps, over your doorsill and into the front hall, half masking the apple tree trunks. A bluegrass in color, but dewstein is bluer and grassier. It holds to the ground so close and floods our fields like thick green paint or billows of sea. 34 I walked by Harkton’s Hundred where the froyn and the quirts are flowering, and I’ve never seen dewstein so lush as what flows over Harkton’s pastures. I waited to see if Harkton was home—would he open the door with Good Morning, or was he down in the Hundred somewhere, recking with last fall’s pommeley briars that lock to your fence rails, at least till the phoebe wasps come and drain the new shoots—or was one of his herd of premiere bowhas not being correctly an animal—pails of songs instead of true syrup? It’s a rich-dirt farm but nobody home, Harkton or Lady Dame Harkton or the sons, still twins after all these years. A wind in the minagaroons, that hang their blue blooms from the rafters, and pink mandaleets sang through the trees. I hatted myself and took the north road. I’d spend a dime at Mrs. Dotspot’s for three of the jelliest ling-dings in town. I’m doing that, walking uphill with my dime. ...