114 FARMING IT 



A sudden chilly dampness shows we are ap- 

 proaching the river. We can almost see the mist 

 as it settles on our faces. Then we have thun- 

 derously passed the bridge and ascended a rise, 

 where it is warmer and where a sudden breeze 

 showers us with big drops. Then down a rocky 

 rattling slope we go, between dense pines. \Ve 

 cannot see them, but the sudden blackness 

 shows they are there, standing shoulder to shoul- 

 der, for warmth and shelter in winter, for cool- 

 ness and shade in summer. 



And now we are approaching the village. In a 

 house a light shines out of a watcher's room, a 

 sick-room possibly, but in the darkness it seems 

 cheerful and bright. Let us hope it is a late stu- 

 dent, a clergyman writing his sermon for the next 

 Sunday, a reader finishing an absorbing story. 

 So bright a light could not come from a sick- 

 room. Who could be sick on a June night? I 

 forget, for we are going to a sick-room. I pull 

 Polly up for a breathing-space. She has come 

 five miles in about twenty-five minutes. 



We are in the village now and can see the 

 faint outlines of houses. A dog rushes out bark- 

 ing savagely, one of those unreasonably fierce 

 shaggy animals that are the pest of drivers, 

 and especially of physicians and night travelers. 

 Polly darts ahead, there is a thump, a yelp, then 

 the off front wheel strikes a soft something and 



