which, Mrs. Jones went about her morning's work with a
thankful heart. The children had had nothing to eat as yet, and now
that their brother's moanings had ceased, they realized that they were
hungry.

"Tan't I have my supper?" sobbed Bub, clinging to his mother's dress
as she walked.

"'Tisn't supper; it's breakfast!" answered Bob, giving the child a
push, which helped him cry the louder.

"Cry-baby cripsy," mocked Bob, making ugly faces at the little fellow;
for fasting had made Bob quarrelsome.

Sad-eyed Mrs. Jones tried in vain to quiet them, carrying and nursing
baby and preparing the meal at the same time, for even the older
children were cross as unfed cubs. Mrs. Jones was no disciplinarian;
she was too broken-spirited to command her offspring; if she ruled at
all, it was by affection and tact. In this instance she set the older
ones at work. One she directed to replenish the fire, another to wash
the potatoes, a third to sweep the floor: a slow job the latter was,
as the "truncheon," or floor of split logs, was jagged, and the broom
worn nearly to the handle. She suggested to Charley to see if the fawn
had got away, which had the effect of causing Bub to go on the same
mission. This stratagem, however, did not avail much in the case of
Charley, who quickly saw through his mother's device, and returned,
exclaiming,--

"Pooh! I guess the fawn's all right!"

But Bub found congenial occupation in teasing the fawn. The pen was
narrow; and Bub, not being able to reach the deer, and tired of
shouting at him, started off into the field for a famous long stick
which had served him for a steed the day before. As he looked for it
among the corn, he saw something flutter, then heard a curious cackle.
It was a prairie hen, whose wings had been broken by shot from Tom's
gun. The bird moved painfully away, trying to hide behind the leafy
stalks. But Bub's bright eyes could not be eluded, and he followed
after, calling, "Chick, chick, chick!" mistaking it for a domestic
fowl. The cunning bird dodged in and out among the standing and
prostrate stacks with marvellous swiftness, considering its condition;
but persevering curly-pate seized the hen at last by the neck, saying,
exultantly,--

"I dot yer; now you 'have!"

The strong wild fowl struggled desperately, scratching his chubby hand
until it bled; but Bub trudged on with his prize into the cabin,
saying, as he entered,--

"See, marm! I totched a biddy!"

The l