“Been down there again?” she asks him pleasantly.
“Just come back,” explains the Wandering Spirit.
“Pretty spot, isn’t it?” says Providence. “Things nice and dry down there now, aren’t they?”
“You’ve hit it,” he answers. “Dry is the word. The rivers are dried up, the wells are dried up, the cattle are dying, the grass is all withered. As for the harvest, there won’t be any harvest for the next two years! Oh, yes, things are dry enough.”
One imagines Providence bursting into tears. “But you suggested yourself a little fine weather.”
“I know I did,” answers the Spirit. “I didn’t suggest a six months’ drought with the thermometer at a hundred and twenty in the shade. Doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got any sense at all.”
“I do wish this job had been given to someone else,” says Providence.
“Yes, and you are not the only one to wish it,” retorts the Spirit unfeelingly.
“I do my best,” urges Providence, wiping her eyes with her wings. “I am not fitted for it.”
“A truer word you never uttered,” retorts the Spirit.