The Cape Girardeau Democrat. (Cape Girardeau, Mo.) 1876-1909, 1897-11-27

N CDDlN hlDUE lay SNeiIeJllS III
the hot June sun. The fields oil
sickly corn gasped and wilted; the
patches of parched wheat and oats rat
tied mournfully as the hot winds swept
over them. Nubbin Ridge at best made
poor return for the labor put upon heI
barren sides; and when nature refused
to be lavish in ~dispensingh her moisture
the harvest was distressingly meager.
Mrs. Louise Long sat in the doorway
of her cabin and looked out along the
Ridge. Everywhere the rows of yellow
stunted corn Dr. patches of dead grain
met her eye and filed her heart with
dismay. 1t seemed TO her that their
own little farm was the worst burned
up of all. She turned to where her
husband crept along the rows of cotton,
AS she followed his slow movements
back and forth across the field a kind
of resentment came into her bosom
toward him.
Il don't know whatever possessed
him to settle on the old clayey Ridge"
she complained, giving way to her
feelings. 1T seems to me some men
are born shif'less, an they jest rotate
to shif'less land-the valley would'n'
Pa come any dearer. Little he can ever
promise hisself or family; but it's jest
Ridge or starve. An there's hat ag-
gervatin' old hen an her chickens in
the garden scratchin' up the last bean.
l don't know what'u become of us, an "
having nee got started she was sure
to drift on to her two pet causes of ir-
ritatiOn, over which she periodically
worried herself into the bed-"an'
Henry spendin' every CEN he can get
his hands on fer tobacco, an the chill
dren needin' bread fer their mouths
and clothes fer their backs. Shifless
an dissipated; that's jest what | call
it. It's downright sin. he bein' a church
member, to throw his money away
chewin' of the filthy weed-there's
them pigs rootin' up the potatoes. 1t
jest seems everything is agin Us. The
next thing it'll be a cyclone blowing
our house away, or an epidemic KILN
off the children: an it might be a provi-
dence, fer if things get much worse
they'd be better of-Oh, my! it seems
III burn up, an it's jest burn, fer the
old pool water jest aggervates yer
thirst. I'd almost give my soul for a
drop of cold water to cool my tongue.
Anybody's that lived on Nubbin Ridge
in June an can't sympathize with the
rich man that lifted up his eyes amt got
a spark of Christian charity. Believe
to my soul III melt" and she mopped
her face with the under side of her
apron, as she shifted her position to
take advantage of the breeze that float
ed lazily along the Ridge. and vigor-
ously piled her turkey-wing fan.
II could put up with it all an never
q word, if Henry'd show any DISPOSE
ton to give up his ~extravagant and
filthy habits. Coin on ten years since
we moved to the Ridge, and if he'd put
half the price he's spent fer tobacco in
a well we'd "a had water fer the Ridge.
Lord O. mercy, yonder's that bull of
Jackson's breakin' in the corn. l have
enough to worry the soul out of job"
She chased the bull from the fence to
the strip of woods and came blowing
back, peerlng under her hand through
the glistening heat toward her husband
in the field.
Yes, a-restin' an no doubt
a-chewin' of his guild. He was born
shif'less an tired"
The sun sank down through a cloud
less sky behind Nubbin Ridge, and the
great yellow glow that fingered in the
west gave no promise of rain.
Shadows had gathered thick in the
valley below Henry Longs little farm
when he stopped his jaded mule at the
end of the rows and began to take off
the harness. He groaned as he threw
his stiffened limbs across the mule and
urged him across the clods toward his
cabin. He could see it in faint outline
against the grove of trees.