_The hushed twilight of a day in May is just beginning. The horizon hills are still rimmed by a faint line of flame, and the sky above them glows with the crimson flush of the sunset. This fades gradually as the action of the scene progresses._ _At the rise of the curtain_, ROBERT MAYO _is discovered sitting on the fence. He is a tall, slender young man of twenty-three. There is a touch of the poet about him expressed in his high forehead and wide, dark eyes. His features are delicate and refined, leaning to weakness in the mouth and chin. He is dressed in gray corduroy trousers pushed into high laced boots, and a blue flannel shirt with a bright colored tie. He is reading a book by the fading sunset light. He shuts this, keeping a finger in to mark the place, and turns his head toward the horizon, gazing out over the fields and hills. His lips move as if he were reciting something to himself._ _His brother_ ANDREW _comes along the road from the right, returning from his work in the fields. He is twenty-seven years old, an opposite type to_ ROBERT--_husky, sun-bronzed, handsome in a large-featured, manly fashion--a son of the soil, intelligent in a shrewd way, but with nothing of the intellectual about him. He wears overalls, leather boots, a gray flannel shirt open at the neck, and a soft, mud-stained hat pushed back on his head. He stops to talk to_ ROBERT, _leaning on the hoe he carries_. ANDREW. (_seeing_ ROBERT _has not noticed his presence--in a loud shout_) Hey there! (ROBERT _turns with a start. Seeing who it is, he smiles_) Gosh, you do take the prize for daydreaming! And I see you’ve toted one of the old books along with you. (_He crosses the ditch and sits on the fence near his brother_) What is it this time--poetry, I’ll bet. (_He reaches for the book_) Let me see. ROBERT. (_handing it to him rather reluctantly_) Look out you don’t get it full of dirt. ANDREW. (_glancing at his hands_) That isn’t dirt--it’s good clean earth. (_He turns over the pages. His eyes read something and he gives an exclamation of disgust_) Hump! (_With a provoking grin at his brother he reads aloud in a doleful, sing-song voice_) “I have loved wind and light and the bright sea. But holy and most sacred night, not as I love and have loved thee.” (_He hands the book back_) Here! Take it and bury it. I suppose it’s that year in college gave you a liking for that kind of stuff. I’m darn glad I stopped at High School, or maybe I’d been crazy too. (_He grins and slaps_ ROBERT _on the back affectionately_) Imagine me reading poetry and plowing at the same time! The team’d run away, I’ll bet. ROBERT. (_laughing_) Or picture me plowing. ANDREW. You should have gone back to college last fall, like I know you wanted to. You’re fitted for that sort of thing--just as I ain’t.