To Jethro Trent, love of the soil was almost a religion. He approached the fields with reverence and humility. He hated noise, while he was in the fields. Harsh discordant sounds are nauseating. He had the odd belief that wheat grew best where it was tranquil. Wheat he loved to raise because waving in the wind it looked like a billowing rolling sea. There was something immense about those broad silent acres. He always breathed more deeply as he walked slowly through his fields. He was not pompous or in any measure conceited. Never had he been known to brag about his possessions. There was nothing vain about Jethro Trent. Nor despite his wealth did he ever cease to toil in the fields. He never felt as though those vast tracts of wheat belonged to him. Rather he felt that he belonged to the soil. It was given to him to make productive those softly rolling meadows. It was a mighty task, an important work, and he was thankful for the trust which had been placed in him. His field service was his religion. He could not have been more devout.
