THE OCTOPUS A Story of California by Frank Norris ... - Pink Monkey

cramping their feet, leaned from the sides of buggy and carryall,
eating bananas and "macaroons," staring about with ox-like
stolidity. Tied to the axles, the dogs followed the horses'
hoofs with lolling tongues coated with dust.
The California summer lay blanket-wise and smothering over all
the land. The hills, bone-dry, were browned and parched. The
grasses and wild-oats, sear and yellow, snapped like glass
filaments under foot. The roads, the bordering fences, even the
lower leaves and branches of the trees, were thick and grey with
dust. All colour had been burned from the landscape, except in
the irrigated patches, that in the waste of brown and dull yellow
glowed like oases.
The wheat, now close to its maturity, had turned from pale yellow
to golden yellow, and from that to brown. Like a gigantic
carpet, it spread itself over all the land. There was nothing
else to be seen but the limitless sea of wheat as far as the eye
could reach, dry, rustling, crisp and harsh in the rare breaths
of hot wind out of the southeast.
As Harran and Presley went along the county road, the number of
vehicles and riders increased. They overtook and passed Hooven
and his family in the former's farm wagon, a saddled horse tied
to the back board. The little Dutchman, wearing the old frock
coat of Magnus Derrick, and a new broad-brimmed straw hat, sat on
the front seat with Mrs. Hooven. The little girl Hilda, and the
older daughter Minna, were behind them on a board laid across the
sides of the wagon. Presley and Harran stopped to shake hands.
"Say," cried Hooven, exhibiting an old, but extremely well kept,
rifle, "say, bei Gott, me, I tek some schatz at dose rebbit, you
bedt. Ven he hef shtop to run und sit oop soh, bei der hind
laigs on, I oop mit der guhn und--bing! I cetch um."
"The marshals won't allow you to shoot, Bismarck," observed
Presley, looking at Minna.
Hooven doubled up with merriment.
"Ho! dot's hell of some fine joak. Me, I'M ONE OAF DOSE
MAIRSCHELL MINE-SELLUF," he roared with delight, beating his
knee. To his notion, the joke was irresistible. All day long,
he could be heard repeating it. "Und Mist'r Praicelie, he say,
'Dose mairschell woand led you schoot, Bismarck,' und ME, ach
Gott, ME, aindt I mine-selluf one oaf dose mairschell?"