Chapter XXII.
Callaghan's Colt.
IT was the year we put the bottom paddock under potatoes. Dad was standing contemplating the tops, which were withering for want of rain. He shifted his gaze to the ten acres sown with corn. A dozen stalks or so were looking well; a few more, ten or twelve inches high, were coming in cob; the rest had n't made an appearance.
Dad sighed and turned away from the awful prospect. He went and looked into the water-cask. Two butterflies, a frog or two, and some charcoal were at the bottom. No water. He sighed again, took the yoke and two kerosenetins, and went off to the springs.
About an hour and a half after he returned with two half-tins of muddy, milky-looking water—the balance had been splashed out as he got through the fences—and said to Mother (wiping the sweat off his face with his shirt-sleeve)—
"Don't know, I'm sure, what things are going t' come t'; . . .no use doing anything . . . there's no rain ... no si" He lifted his foot and with cool exactness took a place-kick at the dog, which was trying to fall into one of the
