"Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Can she bake a cherry pie, charming Billy? She can bake a cherry pie quick as a cat can wink its eye, She's a young thing and can't leave her mother." It required splendid audacity to fling such rippling nonsense at the feathered choirs in the sassafras thickets, but they were all listening with the decorous attitude of a conventional audience. I marked one dapper catbird, perched on a poplar limb, who cocked his head and heard the singer through, and then made that almost imperceptible gesture with which a great critic indicates his approval of a novice. "Not half bad," he seemed to say,--this blase old habitue of the thicket music-halls. "I shouldn't wonder if something could be made of that voice if it were trained a trifle." We broke into a trot and, rounding a corner of the wood, came upon the singer. She was a stripling of a girl in a butternut frock, standing bolt upright on a woman's saddle, tugging away at a tangle of vines, her mouth stained purple with the big fox-grapes, her round white arms bare to the elbows, and a pink calico sun-bonnet dangling on her shoulders, held only by the broad strings around her throat. The horse under her was smoking wet to the fetlocks. This piping miss had been stretching his legs for him. It was Patsy, a madcap protegee of Cynthia Carper, the biggest tomboy that ever climbed a tree or ran a saddle-horse into "kingdom come." She slipped down into the saddle when she saw us, and flung her grapes away into the thicket. We stopped in the turnpike opposite to the cross road in which her horse was standing and hailed her with a laugh. She looked us over with the dimples changing around her funny mouth. "You are a mean lot," she said, "to be laughing at a lady." "We are not laughing at a lady," I answered; "we're laughing at the fun your horse has been having. He's tickled to death." "Well," she said, looking down at the steaming horse, "I had to get here." "You had to get here?" I echoed. "Goodness alive! Nobody but a girl would run a horse into the thumps to get anywhere." "Stupid," she said, "I've just had to get here,--there, I didn't mean that. I meant I had to get where I was going." "You were in a terrible hurry a moment ago," said I. "The horse had to rest," she pouted. "You might have thought of that," I said, "a little earlier in your seven miles' run." Then I laughed. The idea of resting the horse was so delicious that Ump and Jud laughed too. The horse's knees were trembling and his sides puffing like a bellows. Here was Brown Rupert, the fastest horse in the Carper stable, a horse that Cynthia guarded as a man might guard the ball of his eye, run literally off his legs by this devil-may-care youngster. I would have wagered my saddle against a sheepskin that she had started Brown Rupert on the jump from the horse-block and held him to a gallop over every one of those seven blessed miles.