He went on talking about the trees, how they were felled and later tediously dragged down the slopes.
He wound up with how he caught the slippery mudfish in the creeks, how his father had a row with an uncle over the irrigation ditches, how his cousin was hurt in a drinking spree.
Then, unconsciously, his mother was sucked into the whirlpool of his thoughts, and he told of the work she did at home which might as well pass for that of a carabao's washing clothes, pounding rice, helping in the tiling of the soil
the harvest season passed. the tenants littered the yard again with their bullcarts filled with arain. they tucked the jute sacks in neat piles in Father's storehouse.
and one morning , chan Hai drove into the yard with his trucks, joked with Father, weighed