and water hurriedly poured on to shrink the iron and to keep the burlap
from blazing. Well, whoever had set Cora Belle's tires had forgotten to
cut away the surplus burlap, so all the ragtags were merrily waving in
the breeze.

Cora Belle's team would bring a smile to the soberest face alive. Sheba
is a tall, lanky old mare. Once she was bay in color, but the years
have added gray hair until now she is roan. Being so long-legged she
strides along at an amazing pace which her mate, Balaam, a little
donkey, finds it hard to keep up with. Balaam, like Sheba, is full of
years. Once his glossy brown coat was the pride of some Mexican's
heart, but time has added to his color also, and now he is blue. His
eyes are sunken and dim, his ears no longer stand up in true donkey
style, but droop dejectedly. He has to trot his best to keep up with
Sheba's slowest stride. About every three miles he balks, but little
Cora Belle doesn't call it balking, she says Balaam has stopped to
rest, and they sit and wait till he is ready to trot along again. That
is the kind of layout which drew up before our door that evening. Cora
Belle was driving and she wore her wonderful pink dress which hung
down in a peak behind, fully six inches longer than anywhere else. The
poor child had no shoes. The winter had tried the last pair to their
utmost endurance and the "rheumatiz" had long since got the last
dollar, so she came with her chubby little sunburned legs bare. Her
poor little scarred feet were clean, her toe-nails full of nicks almost
into the quick, broken against rocks when she had been herding her
sheep. In the back of the wagon, flat on the bottom, sat Grandma and
Grandpa, such bundles of coats and blankets I can't describe. After a
great deal of trouble we got them unloaded and into the house. Then
Mrs. Louderer entertained them while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I prepared
supper and got a bath ready for Cora Belle. We had a T-bone steak,