slewed her round by the tail, while mother and I fixed the dog-leg and
adjusted the ropes. We got the cow up, but the poor beast was so weak
and knocked about that she immediately fell down again. We resolved to
let her have a few minutes' spell before making another attempt at
lifting. There was not a blade of grass to be seen, and the ground was
too dusty to sit on. We were too overdone to make more than one-worded
utterances, so waited silently in the blazing sun, closing our eyes
against the dust.

Weariness! Weariness!

A few light wind-smitten clouds made wan streaks across the white sky,
haggard with the fierce relentless glare of the afternoon sun. Weariness
was written across my mother's delicate careworn features, and found
expression in my father's knitted brows and dusty face. Blackshaw was
weary, and said so, as he wiped the dust, made mud with perspiration, off
his cheeks. I was weary--my limbs ached with the heat and work. The poor
beast stretched at our feet was weary. All nature was weary, and seemed
to sing a dirge to that effect in the furnace-breath wind which roared
among the trees on the low ranges at our back and smote the parched and
thirsty ground. All were weary, all but the sun. He seemed to glory in
his power, relentless and untiring, as he swung boldly in the sky,
triumphantly leering down upon his helpless victims.

Weariness! Weariness!

This was life--my life--my career, my brilliant career! I was
fifteen--fifteen! A few fleeting hours and I would be old as those around
me. I looked at them as they stood there, weary, and turning down the
other side of the hill of life. When young, no doubt they had hoped for,