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Updated: June 23, 2025
'Ye-ep, very slowly across the wash of the uncut grass. 'Say, that corncrib wants painting. ''Do that when we get around to it. They go off through the dusk, without farewell or salutation steadily as their own steers.
I was badly needin' some things you had and Pietro went out and bought them for me. As for my temper, it's a lot better. A lot! Sid marvels at it. I I do myself. It all comes from the hell up there on the ridge with Adam." He drew a long breath. "I've a record of work that will fill you with pride. And though I seem to have a lot of money, I haven't bought a foolish thing since the corncrib.
There was, therefore, but little to prevent him from having plenty of room in which to house his crops, and as the process of threshing was slow it necessitated more space than is required now. The granary, pig- pen and corncrib were usually separate.
And once more the tears came into the little girl's eyes. "Well, I'll fix it all right," said Mrs. Bunker. "Don't cry, Rose. Even if her buttons are all shucked off we can sew more on. Don't cry!" So Rose dried her tears and hurried on after her mother out to Grandma Bell's corncrib.
But they were up at an early hour, and, after breakfast, took a walk around the farm in company with their Uncle Randolph, who wished to show them the various improvements he had made. "We have a new corncrib and a new root hovel," said their uncle, as they walked around. "And next week we are going to start on a new pigsty."
Nothing walled should be smaller at the floor than it was at the top. It gave one a hopeless feeling of constriction. The feeling colored his dreams. Kenny found himself hazily adrift in an inquisitorial corncrib made of bars of moon-plated silver. They pressed in upon him ever tighter and tighter until with a mighty sweep of his arms he burst them all asunder.
There was a wide yard in front with shade trees and a lye hopper and a well-box, and a paling fence with a stile in it instead of a gate. At the rear, behind a clutter of outbuildings a barn, a smokehouse and a corncrib was a little peach orchard, and flanking the house on the right there was a good-sized cowyard, empty of stock at this hour, with feedracks ranged in a row against the fence.
"That gander knows something he could tell me if he could talk. Birds have memories. He remembered the corncrib he remembered something else. I wish he could talk, poor bird! I wish he could talk. I will never sell him, nor kill him, nor have him abused. He knows!" This is the real Indian fairy tale of the birth of Mon-daw-min.
It either spelled retreat in a harrowing dawn with the marshal and Silas at his heels or a temporary sojourn in a village jail. And Kenny detested any form of humiliation or discomfort. "Silas," he said wearily, "this is a rotten corncrib. It's sprained and spavined and Lord knows what.
Well, no rat with discrimination would select a corncrib abode anyway. He'd fall through the floor slats. Oppressed by the general air of slatty insecurity and the sight of a basket of ancient cobs in one corner, Kenny wished passionately that he hadn't always hated spiders, killed one with a shudder and pensively watched the sunset through the corncrib bars.
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