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Updated: May 13, 2025
Little Margret, sitting by the muddy road, digging her fingers dully into the clover-roots, while she looked at the spot where the wheels had passed, looked at life differently, it may be; or old Joe Yare by the furnace-fire, his black face and gray hair bent over a torn old spelling-book Lois had given him.
Little Margaret, sitting by the muddy road, digging her fingers dully into the clover-roots, while she looked at the spot where the wheels had passed, looked at life differently, it may be; or old Joe Yare by the furnace-fire, his black face and gray hair bent over a torn old spelling-book Lois had given him.
The clover was very little in bulk, and like chaff; not more than nine inches long, and the leaf very much shed from the stalk. By the stubbles on the land I could not tell which had been wheat, or which had been oats or barley; nor could I see any clover-roots where the clover had grown. The weather was hot and dry at that time; it was in December.
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