The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated.Įlisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long but fog and rain did not go together.Īcross the river, on Henry Allen’s foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. The Chrysanthemums ~ A Classic American Short Story by John Steinbeck (1902-1968)
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