In dry spells it is a practice of farmers to cultivate, or frequently dig up, the soil around their corn, potatoes or such other crops as admit of it. This pulverizing of the earth, in a measure, makes up for the lack of rain. That morning Jed and Will had been sent to the big corn patch, which was in a distant field, to work over the ground, and let a little air get to the roots, so that the lack of rain might be offset. As Mr. Crosby strolled over to the corn patch his mind was filled with many thoughts. "I wish I could find something else to do besides farming," he murmured to himself. "It's a very uncertain way of making a living. Still, I suppose it's all I'm fitted for. I don't know much about business, and my folks have been farmers all their lives. But I never saw such hard times as we're having now. I wouldn't mind so much if it was me alone, but there's Nettie. She does want a piano terribly bad, so she can learn to play. She's real quick to learn. And Debby"--as he called his wife, Deborah--"she needs some new clothes, though she never complains about the old ones." "I need some new ones myself, by the looks of these," he went on, glancing down at his much-patched trousers. "I guess Debby will be hard put to find any of the original pattern left to fasten a patch on. But I don't mind. I wish I could give my boys a better education, though. What little schooling they get here in the winter ain't never going to put them ahead very far. Well, I suppose there's no help for it." He trudged on despondently, now and again casting anxious glances upward, to see if there was not in the sky some little cloud that bore a promise of the much-needed rain. But the sun shone down hotter than ever. Meanwhile, Jed and Will were proceeding with their cultivating. Each one was driving a horse attached to a small machine, the sharp teeth of which cut through the dry, caked soil. The horses moved slowly along the rows of corn, a cloud of dust hovering over them and the young farmers. "Hey, Will!" called Jed to his brother, whose head was some distance above the stunted cornstalks, "don't you feel like having an ice-cream soda?" "Don't I, though? Say, Jed, quit talking like that, will you! My throat is all dry down inside, and my tongue is getting twice as thick as it ought to be. Whew! But this dust is fierce! I guess it's forgotten how to rain." "Looks like it. But I'm going to have a drink, anyhow. Whoa, Tabasco Sauce! Stand still!" "Who you talking to?" asked Will, looking through the corn to where his brother was. "My horse, of course." "That's a queer name for him." "Well, Tabasco Sauce is the hottest stuff I know about, and I reckon my horse is about the hottest thing around here, unless it's me. But don't you want a drink?" "What of? I don't care for creek water, and it's too far to go back to the house." "Here's where I stand treat, and surprise you," went on Jed. "Come on. Your horse will stand without hitching."