116 FARMING IT 



luminous gray trouserloons and beautifully pol- 

 ished boots. 



On the floor is a bright but somewhat faded 

 carpet and braided rugs. A cat dozes in front of 

 the open fire-place, neatly swept and dusted, 

 while in a corner an old eight-day clock ticks 

 loudly. I sink into a cambric-covered deep rocker 

 and wait. 



The clock ticks with dreary monotony, there 

 is the sound of muffled footsteps overhead, then 

 a door opens, and a portly, waistless, middle- 

 aged woman beckons me upstairs. 



As I enter a dimly lighted room, as noiselessly 

 as possible, I see stretched on a bed, and covered 

 with a patch -work quilt, an old gray -haired 

 man, with a strong face sunken and yellowed by 

 wasting disease, the lower jaw more prominent 

 than in health, and the gnarled, twisted, calloused 

 hands resting on the white sheet. By his side 

 sits a sweet-faced old lady, with tremulous lips 

 and troubled eyes, patiently awaiting the end. 

 The old man opens his eyes and half raises his 

 hand in welcome. I am in time. 



Long before I come from that chamber the 

 first streaks of light appear in the sky, and as I 

 reenter the sitting-room it is nearly dawn. I look 

 at the violin, the G string has snapped. There 

 is a confused murmur and a hurried rush of feet 

 overhead. 



