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Show Page 133 Rain beat down unceasingly upon the thatch of the company storehouse, an ideal day for a rat killing. Short of food as we were, we could not allow the vermin to eat our corn, as they were wont to do, often destroying many bushels a week. I stood near the door, a long branch in my hand, praying no rat scampered through the circle of folk round the corn pile and came toward me. Twig picked up a few more ears of corn and tossed them from the lessening old pile onto the growing pile beside it. He had begged to use a club, but, fearful for his tender arm, Margaret had refused to let him do more than pitch corn. Another rat, deprived of its cover under the cobs, streaked for safety. THUNK! It, too, was added to the pile of dead. The killing went on till all the ears had been pitched onto the new pile, and the potter, William James, was declared champion rat killer. The folk who had gathered then took their ease upon the barrels stacked about the store. Many looked a stranger with their gaunt faces and hollow, black-rimmed eyes. Rose, leaner than ever, had come. I did not know why, for it was a fair distance to her house and she was not one to search out fellowship and gaity, though there was little enough of that in those hungry times. "What do we do with the dead 'uns?" asked Charles Turner, kicking at a rat with his boot. |
