Will Turnpike, his day's work done, lay on his back amongst the stubble of the cornstalks. He was very happy. Three large orbs hung over his upturned face: one was the sun, the other two belonged to Betsy, whose body was suspended over his whilst she tickled his ears with a strand of old man's beard. The ear of grass began to explore the hairs on his chest where buttons had burst off his shirt. Gradually, mysteriously, uncomfortably, the trousers which had fitted perfectly this morning now appeared several sizes too small. But by the time they both went home, the problem had sorted itself...