Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/147

 Enoch's complexion was not very dark, not much darker than old ivory. His nose was surprisingly well-formed. His lips were a trifle full but otherwise he was handsome. His dark eyes, sparkling with fun and the joy of living, were a pleasure to behold. Few that once met Enoch Joel ever forgot him.

He was not nearly as much a student as his father, nor was he as indefatigable in his quest for knowledge as his mother. He was a true primitive, with all the love of the wild of a young savage. He loved to work about the farm, to care for the chickens, to chop wood, to gather in the hay. But aside from farm-study he was not a good student. In the evenings he enjoyed dozing before the fire more than poring over a book. Perhaps this was because he was always so tired. He was never able to use English nearly as fluently as his parents. He used all sorts of idioms and colloquialisms. He slurred his words. But he talked in a colorful lazy drawl that was pleasing to the ear. Long hours he worked in the fields. There was an enormous amount of