Work Title



Mary G. French


It was August 21, 1936, in the days when Kansas was a part of our country known as the Dust Bowl. The sun shone down on a parched and thirsty earth. The lawn, which should have been a beautiful green velvet carpet, was instead an ugly brown expanse of dead grass whose roots had long ago given up the struggle to reach life-giving moisture. Where no vegetation grew, the ground was cracked and broken. The trees, prematurely brown, swayed lazily in a hot breeze which came drifting in from the west. Birds, mostly boisterous bluejays, friendly robins, twittering sparrows, and an occasional rasping crow, sat about idly discussing the situation. No flies buzzed about, Simply because there were none.



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