Date: Mon, 29 May 2006 10:46:58 +0000 From: "tennasa traore" <interscholastic@ipodgarage.com> To: mobile@freebsd.org Subject: Think globally, act loco Message-ID: <90908503.20060202063554@200.213.211.6>
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Hello,
[cid:53D40CE1.F627A89B.53D40CE1.F627A89B_csseditor]
upadukadel[dot]com
----
It was that time of the year, the turning-point of summer, when the
crops of the present year are a certainty, when one begins to think of
the sowing for next year, and the mowing is at hand; when the rye is
all in ear, though its ears are still light, not yet full, and it
waves in gray-green billows in the wind; when the green oats, with
tufts of yellow grass scattered here and there among it, droop
irregularly over the late-sown fields; when the early buckwheat is
already out and hiding the ground; when the fallow lands, trodden hard
as stone by the cattle, are half ploughed over, with paths left
untouched by the plough; when from the dry dung-heaps carted onto the
fields there comes at sunset a smell of manure mixed with
meadow-sweet, and on the low-lying lands the riverside meadows are a
thick sea of grass waiting for the mowing, with blackened heaps of the
stalks of sorrel among it. It was the time when there comes a brief
pause in the toil of the fields before the beginning of the labors of
harvest--every year recurring, every year straining every nerve of the
peasants. The crop was a splendid one, and bright, hot summer days had
set in with short, dewy nights. The brothers had to drive through the
woods to reach the meadows.
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