It had rained steadily since the political field day which had drawn
such crowds to Kaskaskia. The waters of the Okaw had risen, and Father
Baby's way to his work had been across fields of puddles, through which
he waded before dawn; knowing well that a week's growth of weeds was
waiting for him in its rankness.
The rain was not over. It barely yet restrained itself, and threatened
without falling; blotting out distance as the light grew. A damp air
blew from the northwest. Father Baby found the little avenues between
his rows of maize and pea vines choked with the liberal growth which no
man plants, and he fell furiously to work. His greatest pleasure was the
order and thrift of his little farm, and until these were restored he
could not even wallow comfortably. When he had hoed and pulled out
stubborn roots until his back ached, he stood erect, letting his hands
hang outspread, magnified by their mask of dirt, and rested himself,
thinking of the winter dinners he would enjoy when this moist land
should take on a silver coating of frost, and a frozen sward resist the
tread of his wooden shoe.
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