rms came to play with him,
Johnnie was sure to entertain them by taking them out behind the barn to
show them how high he could make Twinkleheels kick.

As a mark of special favor, Johnnie would sometimes let his friends
flick a few currants at his pet. And sometimes they would even pelt the
old horse Ebenezer, who stood in the stall next to Twinkleheels. There
was little fun in that, however. Ebenezer refused to kick. The first
currant generally brought him out of a doze, with a start. But after
that he wouldn't budge, except perhaps to turn his head and look with a
bored expression at the boys in the doorway.

Johnnie Green and his friends were not alone in enjoying this sport. Old
dog Spot joined them when he could. Unfortunately, when Twinkleheels
kicked, old Spot always wanted to bark. And Johnnie didn't like noise at
such times. He and his friends were always amazingly quiet when they
were engaged in currant throwing behind the barn. And they were always
peering about as if they didn't want to be caught there.

"Run out to the barn and tell your father that dinner's almost ready,"
Mrs. Green said to Johnnie one day.

"He's not in the barn," Johnnie answered.

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Green asked. "I thought I heard him hammering out
there a few minutes ago."

"No!" Johnnie murmured. "Father's in the hayfield."

"That's queer," said his mother. "I was sure I heard hammering.... Well,
blow the horn, then! I don't want dinner to spoil."

So Johnnie Green blew several loud blasts on the horn. And he was glad
to do it, for it gave him an excuse for having a red face.

He threw no more currants at Twinkleheels that day. Somehow it didn't
seem just the wisest thing to do. But the next morning he made
Twinkleheels kick a few times. "It's really good for him," Johnnie tried
to make himself believe. "He needs the exercise."

VI

PICKING CURRANTS

If there was one sort of work that Johnnie Green had always disliked
more than another, it was picking currants. Of course he didn't object
to strolling up to a currant bush and taking a few currants for his own
use, on the spot. What he hated was having to fill pail after pail full
of currants for his mother to make jelly and jam.

It was queer. He certainly liked jelly. And he liked jam. But he had
never found currant picking anything but dull. He always groaned aloud
when his mother told him that the currants were ripe enough to be
picked. And he always had a