"Well, it's loaded, 'y ginger," he grunted as straightened up in the face of the gale. "Shut the door, Eva! Cain't you see it's snowin'?" "I'll bet it was Joe Ramsey leavin' a sack o' hickor' nuts fer us," she said eagerly, slamming the door. "You better bolt the door. He might change his mind an' come back fer 'em," observed her husband. "It don't feel like hickor' nuts. Why, Eva, it's a baskit--a reg'lar clothes baskit. What in thunder do--" "Let's get a light out by the kitchen fire. It's too cold in here." Together they sped to the kitchen with the mysterious offering from the blizzard. There was a fire in the stove, which Anderson replenished, while Eva began to remove the blankets and packing from the basket, which she had placed on the hearth. Anderson looked on eagerly. "Lord!" fell from the lips of both as the contents of the basket were exposed to their gaze. A baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets, sound asleep and happy. For an interminable length of time the Crows, _en dishabille_, stood and gazed open-mouthed and awed at the little stranger. Ten minutes later, after the ejaculations and surmises, after the tears and expletives, after the whole house had been aroused, Anderson Crow was plunging amiably but aimlessly through the snowstorm in search of the heartless wretch who had deposited the infant on his doorstep. His top boots scuttled up and down the street, through yards and barn lots for an hour, but despite the fact that he carried his dark lantern and trailed like an Indian bloodhound, he found no trace of the wanton visitor. In the meantime, Mrs. Crow, assisted by the entire family, had stowed the infant, a six-weeks-old girl, into a warm bed, ministering to the best of her ability to its meagre but vociferous wants. There was no more sleep in the Crow establishment that night. The head of the house roused a half dozen neighbours from their beds to tell them of the astounding occurrence, with the perfectly natural result that one and all hurried over to see the baby and to hear the particulars. Early next morning Tinkletown wagged with an excitement so violent that it threatened to end in a municipal convulsion. Anderson Crow's home was besieged. The snow in his front yard was packed to an icy consistency by the myriad of footprints that fell upon it; the interior of the house was "tracked" with mud and slush and three window panes were broken by the noses of curious but unwelcome spectators. Altogether, it was a sensation unequalled in the history of the village. Through it all the baby blinked and wept and cooed in perfect peace, guarded by Mrs. Crow and the faithful progeny who had been left by the stork, and not by a mysterious stranger.