“Abbie Snover loves that orange-tree more’n anything in the world,” Old Chris cautioned the children when they came after cookies, “an’ don’t you dare touch it, even with your little finger.” The growing orange was as wonderful to the children as it was to Abbie. Instead of taking the cookies and hurrying home, they stood in front of the tree, their eyes round and big. And one day, when Abbie went to the clothes-press to get the cookie-pail, Bruce Sanders snipped the orange from the tree. The children were unnaturally still when Abbie came out of the clothes-press. They did not rush forward to get the cookies. Abbie looked quickly at the tree; the pail of cookies dropped from her hands. She grabbed the two children nearest and shook them until their heads bumped together. Then she drove them all in front of her to the door and down the path to the gate, which she slammed shut behind them. Once outside the gate the children ran, yelling: “Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah! Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah!” Abbie, her hands trembling, her eyes hot, went back into the house. That was what came of letting them take fruit from the trees and vines in the yard; of giving them cookies every time they rang her door-bell. Well, there would be no more cookies, and Old Chris should be told never to let them come into the yard again. That evening, when the metallic hiccough of the well pump on the kitchen porch told her that Old Chris was drawing up fresh water for the night, Abbie went out into the kitchen to make sure that he placed one end of the prop under the knob of the kitchen door and the other end against the leg of the kitchen table. “It’ll freeze afore mornin’,” said Old Chris. “Yes,” Abbie answered. But she did not get up in the night to put an extra chunk of wood in the stove of the down-stairs bedroom. “Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah! Ab-bie Sno-ver, na--aa--ah!” Old Chris stopped shoveling snow to shake his fist at the yelling children. “Your Mas’ll fix you, if you don’t stop that screechin’!” And they answered: “Ab-bie Sno-ver, an’ old Chris! Ab-bie Sno-ver, an’ old Chris!” Every day they yelled the two names as they passed the big house. They yelled them on their way to and from school, and on their way to Giddings’s Hill to slide. The older boys took it up, and yelled it when they saw Abbie and Old Chris on Main Street Saturday mornings. And finally they rimed it into a couplet, “Ab-bie Sno-ver, an’ Old Chris-- We saw Chris an’ Ab-bie kiss!” It was too much. Abbie went to Hugh Perry’s mother. Mrs. Perry defended her young son. “He couldn’t have done it,” she told Abbie. “He ain’t that kind of a boy, and you can just tell that Old Chris I said so. I guess it must be true, the way you’re fussin’ round!” Mrs. Perry slammed the door in Abbie’s face. Then she whipped her young son, and hated Abbie and Old Chris because they were responsible for it.