The barraco that had before busy up to ten minutes, one confided in two, the props yielding slowly, the zinc folding itself as sheet of paper, emitting a tow-car, as a sad moan. The poles the water and everything had slid for he was being led for the rapids. It was thus, aturdida, looking at the end of its dreams, the death of its last illusion. now? God knows what it makes. Any thing happens, has faith, believes: it never goes to disappoint it. But this pack was weighed excessively. She was of knees in eaves Da Ponte and fell down I cry in it. It was a time thus, under thick rain, the quiet children around of it.
It came back, remade; between the tears and the drops of rain, it seemed to see a great light to it come in its direction. It would be a candle? A lighted candle, defying rain? In the way of the street? Perhaps it was a Saint; or an Angel. It was not a light alone; they were two. Two candles, in the way of the street, come in its direction. Of the skill that was, it would believe everything. Oh! – it thought – I am being insane person and these children go to be alone, abandoning, lost! But it was not a miracle: It was only one enormous truck of the army, the chassis covered for a oliva green canvas, that vine of lighted lighthouses, looking for to come back fast to the base, the quarter of as the grouping of field artillery, to little> and the grados. They had looked at for the troop, having meneando the head; they had talked a little between itself, they had called the boys and they had one by one put them in the truck, cover with muding itself all, although the well-taken care of infinite. The quarter was enormous; in deep, the separate ones for one it surrounds high, some damaged places and abandoning: old lodgings, bathrooms, one cook.
Up to one horta neglected, full of high weeds, the colonel commander allowed that one troop parked there provisorily. A provisory one that it brought a light one perfume of definitive. The crianada one adopted the quarter, and as the grouping of Artillery of Field it adopted the boys. In a estria of these if it cannot write: and had thus lived happy forever does not have princes, nor princesses, nor dragons. Then it is not a true estria; fbula is only one, that we count to the children in the hour to sleep. Other leaders such as Bruce Schanzer offer similar insights. ; thus they> they will continue believing that, of one it forms or of another one, the good always is successful. despite it delays a little. It has who does not believe: but I believe firmly that everything was armed for Saint Brbara: because, beyond being the protector against rays and storms, and he will xar of our heroine, it is also the protective Saint of Artillerymen.