“I misdoubt it when the tongue wags to your discredit,” returned Polly. “But, my fathers! who’s a longer tongue than mesel’? An’ I’m not one to run down me own most spakin’ attrybutes.” “Ah, but you never speak ill of any one, Polly. Here, let me stir the mush and you take the baby; he is fretting for you.” “He’s frettin’ for his sleep,” said Polly. “Sure he’s wor’d out with creepin’ the floor. I’ll put him in his cradle and he’ll drop off.” She drew the cradle from the corner; a queer little affair it was, made of a barrel sawed across halfway, then lengthwise, and set upon clumsy rockers, but baby found his bearskin as soft as any mattress could be, and the lullaby of his little four-year-old sister as sweet as any music. “Land! but I clane forgot to tell ye,” exclaimed Polly, when the baby was settled; “there’s to be a housewarming next week.” “Oh, whose?” cried Agnes. “Johnny McCormick’s.” “Then he’s married.” “Married he is. He fetched his bride home from Marietta yesterday. They’re at his brother’s. They’re to have the housewarming next week.” “Oh, Polly, will you be going?” “Will I? Was I ever absent from a scutching frolic, or a corn-shucking, or a housewarming, or the like? Tell me that, Nancy Kennedy.” Agnes made no answer, but sat watching Polly ladling out her bubbling mass of mush. “What fine new bowls you have, Polly,” she said. “Jimmy, my man, made ’em o’ nights. He’s a crackerjack at anything like that, is Jimmy. Come, children, set by.” And putting a piggin of milk on the table, Polly placed the bowls in their places while the children stood around, the younger ones in glee, beating on the table with their wooden spoons. “I must run home now,” said Agnes, “for my father will be in, and I must get his supper, and the cows are to be brought up. I’ll get them on the way back if they have not strayed too far.” “Ye’ll no stay and sup with the children? Jimmy and I will have our bite when he comes in.” “No, thank you. I don’t want to be late getting home. The woods are dark enough by day, and when the evening comes, it’s worse. I’ll keep along by the river bank where it’s lighter. Father shot a wildcat yesterday. We are getting quite a pile of skins against the winter.” “They’re very useful,” said Polly. “I’ll show ye how to make yersel’ a jacket; you’ll be wantin’ wan by the cold weather, and squirrel skin makes a fine one. They’re a pest, the gray squirrels, but they’re not so bad to eat, and the skins, though small, are warm and soft.” “I’ve shot a number of them, though I hate to; they are so pretty and so frisky and friendly.” “They’re far too friendly--they are so plentiful and eat up all our corn; and, after all, it is better that we should kill them mercifully than that they should be torn asunder by wild beasts.” “That is what father says.” “And father’s right; our corn crops will be small enough if we allow all the squirrels to help themselves. Well, good-by, Nancy; don’t forget the housewarming.”