o fine
milk-cows with cow babies wobbling along at their flanks.

"Yes," answered Peter, thoughtfully--"yes, I should say that 'rooted'
would about express the life, and I am wondering--" But just here we
turned off into Brier Lane, and Peter went up in the air and began to
float among the tree-tops, only being able to take in the high-lights
like the gnarled old cedars that jutted out from the lichen-covered
stone wall and hung over the moss-green snake-rail fences, or the old
oaks which were beginning to draw young, green loveliness around them,
or the feathery buckbushes and young hackberries that were harboring all
varieties of mating birds who were wooing and flirting and cheeping baby
talk in a delightfully confidential and unabashed manner. Peter had
become wildly absorbed in a brilliant scarlet cardinal that followed the
car, scolding and swearing in the most pronounced bird language, all for
no fault of ours that we could see, when we turned in the cedar-pole
gate of The Briers and began to wind our way up through the potato and
corn field on one side and the primeval forest on the other. It was
difficult to get Peter past the old thorn-tree view of the Harpeth
Valley we had come through, and he wanted to get out and stay for ever
at the milk-house; but I finally landed him in a Homeric daze up in
front of the house, which stood with its hospitable old door wide open
but deserted.

"Sam! Byrd! Mammy!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, while Peter sat
paralyzed at the sight of Sam's farm-house. Peter had got the old
Crittenden house and all the others where he had been entertained in
his mind's eye, and that Sam's present residence was a shock to him I
could see plainly. That was the beginning.

"Hi, Betty, come here quick--I need you!" came in Sam's most
business-like voice from the barn up on the hill, while I could hear
wild and excited cheeps from the Byrd and disturbed clucks from Mammy.

Leaving Peter to disembark as he recovered himself, I sped around the
house and up to the barn.

"Here, Betty, this blamed mule has kicked old Jude, and I must have
somebody to hold the edges together while I sew it up. Mammy's hands
aren't steady enough. Now press the edges together and never mind the
blood on your hands. Hold the halter, Mammy. You get that can of lime
ready to dust it, Byrd." Thus in dirty, blood-stained overalls, with his
hair on ends and an earth smudge as usual right across his face like a
Heid