The Road to Dumbiedykes 



field of corn that gave such promise 

 at the last full moon — now "fired" 

 and on the brink of ruin? What of 

 the curling leaves on elm and maple? 



I have indeed vivid recollections of 

 a hayloft in an old red barn from the 

 door of which we used to watch this 

 great event of the final coming of the 

 heavy rain, and I can hear still the 

 comforting monotony of that steady 

 patter on the roof bringing life and 

 hope renewed into a languishing world. 

 You farm-bred fold know full well, as 

 you watch the slow discharging of the 

 thick gray clouds, the astounding trans- 

 formation now at hand. 



At Dumbiedykes, alas, there is now 

 no barn — only a garage. And who 

 could stand or sit for hours in an auto- 

 mobile stable and welcome with grate- 

 ful heart a two-days rain? Nobody, 

 of course. There are no friendly eyes 

 or ears or muzzles in the stalls to keep 

 you company. There is no hay over- 

 head. No feed-bins, straw or meal- 

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