CHAPTER XI 



The Rain Upon the Roof 



It was now late in August. For 

 weeks there had been practically no 

 relief from the burning drouth. Day 

 after day the sun had set in copper only 

 to rise again in brass. The bluegrass 

 looked as if dead beyond recall. The 

 leaves were turning brown, and falling 

 rapidly. Now and then cloud-banks 

 would appear in the distance, and an 

 occasional flash and distant thunder- 

 peal seemed to signal the beginning of 

 the end, but the promise would fail 

 to be fulfilled, and the suffering was all 

 the greater because of the hope that 

 died. 



At length, however, when the thirsty 

 earth was in despair, one evening 

 there was scattered all along the west- 

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