That Girl of Johnson's — page 144: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LIHAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S, 133 CHAPTER XXIX. THE FREAKS OF A WOMAN. The sunlight flooded the mountains and the quiet settle- ment; the sky was deeply blue; the pines along the bank beside Dolores’ window stirred softly in the low wind that stole down from the summit laden with spicy odors. Down in the valley the river ran riot, shouting its jubilate as it swirled under the rotten bridge and whirled in mad eddies up the coarse grass along its banks. The chickens came out of their sheds and combed their draggled feathers in front of the door where the sun was warmest; one or two of the bravest roosters mounted the rickety fence, and crowed shrilly to the waking world. Brindle lowed restlessly, waiting to be milked. Smoke curled from the chimneys here and there in gray wreaths, floating airily up and up, borne by the sweet, low wind. Windows and doors were open to let in the freshened aiz and sunlight after the storm. Out in the sheds the men were milking, or drawing water from the wells, while the lean cows pressed around for drink with jostle and jingle of bells. Up from the long, low tavern a girl’s voice floated in song. Uncultured and rude were the tones, and rough the words she sang, but the sweet, low wind caught them and softened them almost to beauty. Cinthy was setting the table with clatter and wayward movements, intensified just then, for Dr. Dunwiddie was standing in the doorway fac- ing the Johnson house, with a half smile on his lips. The girl was singing when he entered, and with a faint trace of bravado or stubbornness, she would not pause in her song. She was not an ill favored girl; her hair was light and curly, twisted tight in a knot at the back of her head; her eyes were soft and blue, though possessing little intelli Gomicbooks (aCe) n