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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"A Sappho of Green Springs"

"Good heavens! couldn't they have stayed around without
talking? Surely it didn't require four men to go and bring up that
wagon!" She picked up her parasol from the bench with an impatient
little jerk. Then she held out her ungloved hand into the hot sunshine
beyond the door with the gesture she would have used had it been
raining, and withdrew it as quickly--her hand quite scorched in
the burning rays. Nevertheless, after another impatient pause she
desperately put up her parasol and stepped from the shanty.
Presently she was conscious of a faint sound of hammering not far away.
Perhaps there was another shed, but hidden, like everything else, in
this monotonous, ridiculous grain. Some stalks, however, were trodden
down and broken around the shanty; she could move more easily and see
where she was going. To her delight, a few steps further brought her
into a current of the trade-wind and a cooler atmosphere. And a short
distance beyond them, certainly, was the shed from which the hammering
proceeded.


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