By Betty MacDonald
Relates the fun and frustrations of lifestyles on a chook farm within the mountains of Washington.
summary: Relates the fun and frustrations of lifestyles on a bird farm within the mountains of Washington
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Mary said, “He didn’t mean this flume, Betsy dear, he meant flumes that go into dams or end up in waterfalls. Of course, those flumes are very, very dangerous, but this old thing,” she patted the flume like an old dog, “is perfectly safe. ” Cautiously I again knelt and peered down into the long green tunnel and it did seem much safer. At least it was perfectly quiet and I couldn’t hear the roar of any waterfalls. “Let’s just slide a little way in it and then crawl out again,” Mary suggested. “You go first,” I said.
His fat little legs wobbled and when he tried to get his balance his arms went around like windmills and at the exact center, and just as Mother came home, he fell and landed on his back on the cellar stairs. Mother carried him into the house and put him in a tub of hot water and when the doctor came he tested his reflexes and said Cleve wasn’t hurt at all, but it was a long time before he would take an active part in any of Mary’s and Marjorie’s schemes, particularly when he learned that he had dropped his twenty-five cents when he fell and some little ghoul had stolen it.
Every couple of hundred feet I had to stop and unclamp my purple hands from the suitcase handle and shift the baby to the other hip. Every half mile or so we all sat down on a soaking stump or log to rest. The rain was persistent and penetrating, and after the third rest all of our clothes had the uniform dampness of an ironing folded down the night before. The children were cheerful and didn’t seem to mind the discomforts—I was as one possessed. I was leaving the dreary monotony of the rain and the all-encompassing loneliness of the farm to go home to the warmth and laughter of my family and now that I was started I would have carried both children and the suitcase, forded raging torrents and run that last never-ending mile with a White Russian on each shoulder.
Anybody can do anything by Betty MacDonald