It was December - a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a ¹path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine ²shadows, moving a little ⁶from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She ⁹carried a thin, small cane made ⁷from an umbrella, and with this she kept ¹³tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This ¹⁰made a grave and persistent ³noise in the still air, that seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
    She ¹¹wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she ¹⁴took a step she might have fallen over her ⁴shoelaces ¹⁵which dragged ⁸from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes ¹²were blue with age. Her ⁵skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles.
   Adapted from: WELTY, Eudora. A worn path. In: __. "Literature: 150 masterpieces of fiction, poetry and drama". New York: St. Martin's Press, 1991. p. 200.

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