a stump while he chased a polecat that he
fell on while it was going under a fence, and now Uncle Tuck is
a-burying of him up in the woods lot. Jest joggle her with your foot
this way if she goes to cry." And in demonstration of his directions
the General put one bare foot in the middle of the mite's back and
administered a short series of rotary motions, which immediately
brought a response of ecstatic gurgles. "We'll come back for her as
soon as we dig him up," he added, as he prepared for another flying
leap across the spring stream.

"But, Stonie, wait and tell me what you mean!" exclaimed Rose Mary,
while Everett regarded Stonewall Jackson and his cohorts with
delighted amusement.

"I told you once, Rose Mamie, that Tobe fell on a polecat under a
fence he was a-chasing, and he smells so awful Uncle Tuck have burned
his britches and shirt on the end of a stick and have got him buried
in dirt up to jest his nose. Burying in dirt is the onliest thing
that'll take off the smell. We comed to ask you to watch Shoofly while
he's buried, cause Mis' Poteet will be mad at him when she comes home
if Shoofly smells. We're all a-going to stay right by him until he's
dug up, 'cause we all sicked him on that polecat and we ought in
honor!"

Stonie looked at the Swarm for confirmation of this worthy sentiment,
and it arose in a murmur. The Swarm was a choice congregation of small
fry that trailed perpetually at the heels of Stonewall Jackson, and at
the moment was in a state of seething excitement. Jennie Rucker's
little freckled face was pale under its usual sunburn, as a result of
being too near the disastrous encounter, and her little nose, turned
up by nature in the outset, looked as if it were in danger of never
again assuming its normal tilt. She held small Pete by one chubby
hand, and with a wry face he was licking out an absurd little red
tongue at least twice each moment, as if uncertain as to whether his
olfactory or gustatory nerves had been offended. Billy was standing
with the nonchalant unconcern of one strong of stomach, and the four
other little Poteets, ranging in size from Shoofly, on the floor, to
Tobe, the buried, were shuffling their bare feet in the dust with
evident impatience to be off to gloat over the prostrated but
important member of the family. They rolled their wide eyes at almost
impossible angles, and small Peggy sniffed audibly into a corner of
her patched gingham apron.

"Yes, Stonie," answe