150 FARMING IT 



shoulders, a little black hat dingy with age and 

 depressed over one eye, and rubbers through 

 the holes of which the water squshes as she plods 

 along. Rain or shine, it is all one to her provided 

 she gets work enough and it is warm enough. 

 She has long ceased to care for such things. And 

 yet she once was a fun-loving, laughing, trim- 

 built young girl. But that must have been long 

 years ago. Poor old thing! 



The rain still falls. The streets and square 

 are deserted. The thunder rolls at intervals, 

 but the shower is passing. A gleam of sunshine 

 strikes through a rift in the clouds and turns the 

 falling drops to gold. From without comes the 

 sweet homely song of the chipping sparrow. 



