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Over the purr of the motor we heard a wind pump squeaking as it turned and a calf bawling and the katydids starting up in a grove of walnut trees.

For a long time, the wind pump had not been working, forcing locals to pump the water by hand.

A broken wind pump creaks, and a forgotten path runs nowhere into brambles.

Hints were of no use; the people would stop, while Ichabod Gunnis heartily wished that he might do the same, for it was a close and confined space where he laboured at the handle of his wind pump, until Jared’s afflatus had been dispersed.

The second man pumped a wind pump with a living red wind through the red mouth.