Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 3, 2025
A little later she climbed the bluff to the corn-field, making a diligent search for Indian arrowheads all the way. When she reached the seed-bag again, she threw the string over her head and started up a row determinedly. For a rod or more she did not pause either to be polite or to scare away gophers, but hurried along very fast, with her eyes to the ground.
"Out on an ocean all boundless we ride, We're homeward bound, Homeward bound." And so along each lane through the red sunset the farmers rolled home. Home through lanes bordered with velvet green wheat, across which the sunlight streamed in dazzling yellow floods. Home through wild prairies, where the birds nested and the gophers whistled.
One morning, indeed, she sat down on a red grass bank beside the road and read all the war news through before she stirred, while the grasshoppers played leap-frog over her skirts, and the gophers came out of their holes and blinked at her.
When you were a little girl, when you were a little boy, where did you play? Was it in a barn? Was it a city park? Did you hunt gophers on the plains of Iowa? Perhaps it was in a California poppy field. Perhaps a graveyard.
"But reinforcements were at hand. The rain fell in torrents; the beavers had dammed all the rivers and there was a great flood. The besieged all retreated into the innermost lodge, but the water poured in through the burrows made by the badgers and gophers, and rose until Stone Boy's mother and his ten uncles were all drowned.
Then ye'll do best to go dead easy. Fer that crank's comin' right along, an', I 'lows, if I was you I'd as lief lie here and rot, an' feed the gophers wi' my carcass as run up agin him. I tell ye, pard, ther's a cuss hangin' around wher' Nick Westley goes, an' I don't reckon it's like to work itself out easy by a big sight." Jean finished up with profound emphasis.
The whistle of gophers, the faint, wailing, fluttering cry of the falling plover, the whir of the swift-winged prairie pigeon, or the quack of a lonely duck, came through the shimmering air. The lark's infrequent whistle, piercingly sweet, broke from the longer grass in the swales nearby. No other climate, sky, plain, could produce the same unnamable weird charm.
Carl: "Not the old pasture by the lake? Well, well! Is that a fact! Why, gee! I used to snare gophers there!" Gertie: "Oh yes. Why, you simply wouldn't know it, Carl, it's so much changed. There must be a dozen houses on it, now. Why, there's cement walks and everything, and Mr.
"What day is this?" he asked. "Friday," said I, "the twenty-first." "By this time," said he feebly, "we must be pretty well shot to rags." "Never mind about that," said I, holding his hands in mine. "Never mind, Jim!" "Some of those gophers," said he, after a while, "used to learn to ... rub their noses ... in the dirt ... and always stick their heads up outside the snare!"
The gophers have come out of their winter quarters and are chattering and racing about. We saw a phalanx of wild geese going northward, and Dinky-Dunk says he's seen any number of ducks. They go in drifting V's, and I love to watch them melt in the sky-line. The prairie floor is turning to the loveliest of greens, and it is a joy just to be alive. I have been out all afternoon.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking