it had been the
plot of ground without the walls of Eden in which our first parents were
forced to get busy.

"Great work, Farmwoman," said Adam as we sat down on the side steps to eat,
bite-about, the huge red apple he had taken from the bundle of emigrant
appearance which he always carried over his shoulder on the end of a long
hickory stick and which I had by investigation at different times found to
contain everything from clean linen to Sanskrit poetry for father. To-day I
found the manuscript score of a new opera by no less a person than Hurter
himself, which he insisted on having me hum through with him while we ate
the apple.

"I told Hurter I thought that fourth movement wouldn't do, and now I know
it after hearing you try it through an apple," said Pan as he rose from
beside me, tied the manuscript up in the bandana bundle, and picked up his
long pruning-knife. "Now, Woman, we'll put a curb on the rambling of every
last rambler in this garden and then we can lay out the rows for Bud to
plant with the snap beans to-morrow." Adam, from the first day he had met
me, had addressed me simply with my generic class name, and I had found it
a good one to which to make answer. Also Adam had shown me the profit and
beauty of planting all needful vegetables mixed up with the flowers in the
rich and loamy old garden, and had adjusted a cropping arrangement between
the Corn-tassel Bud and me that was to be profitable to us both, Bud only
doing in odd hours the work I couldn't do, and getting a share of the
profits.

"Don't work me to death to-day," I pleaded, and told him about the rescue
of the babies Bird with so much dramatic force that his laughter rang out
with such volume that old Rufus came to the kitchen window to look out and
shake his head, and I knew he was muttering about "Peckerwoods," "devils,"
and the sixth day of the week. "Will the chicks live all right, do you
think?" I asked anxiously.

"They're safe if they never got cold to the touch and you didn't joggle 'em
too much. Do either you or Miss Rutherford happen to er--er--kick in your
sleep?"

"We do not!" I answered with dignity, as I snipped away a dead branch of
ivy from across the path.

"I just thought Miss Rutherford might from--"

"You don't know Bess; she's so executive that--"

"That she wouldn't kick eggs for anything," finished Pan, mockingly. "She
does pretty well in the Russian ballet, doesn't she?"

"Oh, I wish you could just see