. It was plain that what Marty had said about currying the
horses was quite true. The beasts' winter coats still clung to them in
rags. And the poor cow!

A couple of lean shoats squealed in a pen.

"What makes them so noisy, Marty?" asked his cousin.

"I guess they're thirsty. Always squealin' about sumthin'--hogs is. More
nuisance than they're worth."

"But--I s'pose if _you_ wanted water, you'd squeal?" suggested Janice.

"Huh! smart, ain't ye?" growled Marty. "I'd go down ter Dickerson's an'
git a drink. So'll them shoats if Dad don't mend that pen pretty soon."

It was no use to suggest that Marty might make the needed repairs; so
Janice made no further comment. The trail of shiftlessness was over
everything. Fences were down, doors flapped on single hinges, roofs were
caved in, heaps of rubbish lay in corners, here and there broken and
rusted farm implements stood where they had last been used. Neglect and
Decay had marked the Day farm for their own.

The fields were plowed for corn and partly worked up with the harrow.
But nothing further had been done for several days past, and already the
weeds were sprouting.

Most of the fences were of stone; but the pasture fence was of three
strands of wire, and with a hammer and staples a good deal might have
been done for it in a few brisk hours.

"Aw, what's the use?" demanded Marty. "It'd only be down again in a
little while."

"But the poor cow----"

"Shucks! She's gone dry long ago. An' I'm glad of it, for Dad made me
milk her."

The climb through the pasture and the woodlot above it, however, was
pleasant, and when Janice heard the falling water she was delighted.
This was so different from the prairie country to which she was used
that she must needs express her appreciation of its loveliness again and
again.

"Oh, yes," grunted Marty. "But these rocky old farms are mighty hard to
work. I bet I picked up a million dornicks out o' that upper cornfield
las' month. An' ye plow jest as many out o' the ground ev'ry year. Mebbe
the scenery's pretty upon these here hills; but ye can't _eat_ scenery,
and the crops are mighty poor."

Over the lip of a smoothly-worn ledge the water sprayed into a granite
basin. The dimpling pool might have been knee-deep, and was as cold as
ice.

"It's like that the hottest day in August," said Marty. "But it's lots
more fun to go swimmin' in the lake."

It was late afternoon when they came down the hillside to the old Da