In the waterless wastes of Bechuanaland there is no happier word than pula, which means first "rain," and hence almost everything else that is good. Last week in a tidy suburban cottage outside London, a handsome, long-legged law student gazed at his comely,wife of eight years and murmured a heartfelt "Pula" Soon afterward he canceled his plans for a December bar examination, put his Croydon cottage up for sale and made plans to go home. "From now on," he said, "I'm going to be a farmer."
Thus, like a shower of rain after...
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