Chapter X.
Dad And The Donovans.
A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the very
weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal ironing,
mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how hot it was.
The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet on the floor--the
child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the slip-rails.
Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days.
The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two
draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to keep
the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for him--which
the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly refused to drink;
and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up and go on with the
ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of mesmerism, but he used to
stand for long intervals dumbly staring the old horse full in the eyes
till in a commanding voice he would bid him, "Get up!" But Farmer lacked
the patriotism of the back-block poets. He was obdurate, and not once did
he "awake," not to mention "arise".
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