three years without rain, and all around here people was starvin'.
Grown folks was thin and tired, and children was sickly--they was
too peaked to play. Why, we took in a hull family--wagon-folks.
Their hosses died and they couldn't go on, so we kep' 'em--'til
_we_ burned out. I don't know how we managed to get by except that
Pa and Buddy are rustlers and I can do more 'n a hired man. We
_never_ had enough to eat. Stuff just wouldn't grow. The stock got
bonier and bonier and finally died, 'count of no grass and the
tanks dryin' out. And all the time the sun was a-blazin' and the
dust was a-blowin and the clouds would roll up and then drift away
and the sun would come out hotter 'n ever. Day after day, month
after month, we waited--eighteen, I think it was. People got so
they wouldn't pray no more, and the preachers moved away. I guess
we was as bad off as them pore folks in Beljum. Why, even the
rattlesnakes pulled out of the country! Somehow the papers got
hold of it and bime-by some grub was shipped in and give around,
but--us Briskows didn't get none. Pa'd die before he'd beg."

The girl was herself now; she was talking naturally, feelingly,
and her voice was both deep and pleasing.

"The thinner Ma got, the more she talked about the mountains,
where there was water--cool, clear water in the criks. And timber
on the hills--timber with green leaves on it. And grass that you
could lay down in and smell. I guess Ma was kind of feverish. We
was drier 'n a lime-burner's boot when the rain did come. I'll
never forget--we all stood out in it and soaked it up. It was
wonderful, to get all wet and soaky, and not with sweat."

"Then on top of that the oil came, too. It _must_ have been