A DRY SPELL


It had rained for a fortnight--not all the time heavily, but a fog
had sullenly hung about the mountain tops, clinging to the
atmosphere and rendering the whole of existence a dull gray colour.
Every little while it would discharge a fine drizzle of rain or a
heavy shower down upon the hay and everything else on earth, so that
only the stones would occasionally be dry--but the grass never.

We were tired of the store--indeed, I should like to know who would
have enjoyed it. It dated back to the beginning of the last century,
a tarred, coal-black, ramshackle hut. The windows were low and
small, the windowpanes diminutive. The ceiling was low. Everything
was arranged in such a way as to exclude the possibility of lofty
flights of thought or vision.

Just now, not a living soul looked in--not even those thriftless
fellows who lived by chance jobs in the village and met in daily
conclave at the store. We had often cursed their lengthy visits, but
now that they had hired themselves out during the haymaking, we
suddenly realized that they had often been entertaining. They had
made many amusing remarks and brought us news of the neighbourhood.
And now we cursed them for their absence.

We sat there and smoked, staring vacantly at the half-empty shelves,
and all but shivering in the damp room. There was no heater in the
store at any season, and the one in the office, if used, emitted
spurts of smoke through every aperture except the chimney. It had