These words, spoken probably in jest, instantly filled my heart with an
agony of fear. I saw in imagination just how my little playmate would
come running out to meet his cruel foes, his brown eyes beaming with
love and trust,--I saw them hiding sharp stones behind their backs while
snapping their left-hand fingers to lure him within reach, and then I
saw them drive their murdering weapons at his head.

I could think of nothing else. I could not study, I could only sit and
stare out of the window with tears running down my cheeks, until at
last, the teacher observing my distress, inquired, "What is the matter?"
And I, not knowing how to enter upon so terrible a tale, whined out,
"I'm sick, I want to go home."

"You may go," said the teacher kindly.

Snatching my cap from beneath the desk where I had concealed it at
recess, I hurried out and away over the sand-lot on the shortest way
home. No stopping now for burrs!--I ran like one pursued. I shall never
forget as long as I live, the pain, the panic, the frenzy of that race
against time. The hot sand burned my feet, my side ached, my mouth was
dry, and yet I ran on and on and on, looking back from moment to moment,
seeing pursuers in every moving object.

At last I came in sight of home, and Rover frisked out to meet me just
as I had expected him to do, his tail wagging, his gentle eyes smiling
up at me. Gasping, unable to utter a word, I frantically dragged the dog
into the house and shut the door.

"What is the matter?" asked my mother.

I could not at the moment explain even to her what had threatened me,
but her calm sweet words at last gave my story vent. Out it came in
torrential flow.

"Why, you poor child!" she said. "They were only fooling--they wouldn't
dare to hurt your dog!"

This was probably true. Matt had spoken without any clear idea of the
torture he was inflicting.

It is often said, "How little is required to give a child joy," but
men--and women too--sometimes forget how little it takes to give a child
pain.

CHAPTER IV

Father Sells the Farm

Green's Coulee was a delightful place for boys. It offered hunting and
coasting and many other engrossing sports, but my father, as the seasons
went by, became thoroughly dissatisfied with its disadvantages. More and
more he resented the stumps and ridges which interrupted his plow. Much
of his quarter-section remained unbroken. There were ditches to be dug
in the marsh and young oaks