English III: "The Chrysanthemums" by John Steinbeck

Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with.

No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms.

It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro.

Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately.

Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately.

Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily.

Now the newcomer dog, feeling outnumbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth.

His eyes were dark, and they were full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of teamsters and of sailors.

The callused hands he rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every crack was a black line.

He replied with some asperity, "It might surprise you what them beasts can pull through."

His voice took on a whining undertone.

With her strong fingers she pressed them into the sand and tamped around them with her knuckles.

She crouched low like a fawning dog.

And then she scrubbed herself with a little block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest and arms, until her skin was scratched and red.

And then she scrubbed herself with a little block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest and arms, until her skin was scratched and red.