children they'd get a trouncin', but they belong
to some of them city folks down by the beach. Them city children dunno
nothin'--can't expect 'em to. Come, young uns," and, in a moment, Zaidee
and Helen stood on the planks.

"Sech capers!" grumbled the other man, setting down the dripping little
figures he had lifted out. "Hull batch spiled. Now, scoot." And the
children hastily scooted, leaving a milky track behind.

They had no idea of the way home, but, as Zaidee was not ready to
return yet, that did not trouble her. Once outside of the cheese factory
they got leaves and wiped off each other's dripping faces and hair, as
best they could.

"My shoes are all soppy," said Helen, tiptoeing along, uncomfortably.

"Let's take 'em off," said Zaidee, instantly, sitting down and tugging
at the wet buttonholes, which would not yield to her small fingers.
Helen's were loose, and unbuttoned easily. When she got her shoes off,
however, she found she could not walk, for the sticks and prickles on
the ground hurt her tender feet.

"I'll have to put my shoes on again," she said. "The palms of my feet
hurt so. Don't take yours off, Zaidee."

So Zaidee got up out of the little pool of whey that had dripped from
her dress while she had been sitting, and after Helen had, with some
difficulty, crowded her feet into her wet shoes again, the children
started off in search of a new adventure. The hot sun on their clothes
was fast making them very unpleasant objects to a sensitive nose, but
they were getting used to the odour of sour milk.

There was a little foot-bridge above the dam, for on the other side of
the stream stood a little sawmill. The children ran across the bridge,
gaily. Back of the sawmill were high heaps of delightful yellow sawdust.

"See those beautiful yellow hills!" cried Zaidee, rapturously, running
forward and throwing herself full length into one, bringing a cloud of
yellow powder about her. "It's awfully nice, Helen; come on."

Helen, nothing loth, came on, and in a moment the children were
wallowing in the soft, light dust. In the somewhat damp state of their
clothes, the immediate result can be imagined.

"You look just like a woolly worm, Helen," said Zaidee, gleefully.
"You're all fuzzy with sawdust. Lie down and I'll bury you all up."

Helen obediently sat down, and Zaidee heaped a yellow mound over her.

"You're like a yellow Santa Claus," cried Zaidee, as Helen emerged,
presently, somewhat smothe