The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy demanded, "Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes?" "I'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow?" "George Birt," promptly replied the little boy. "What air ye doin' down thar? I thought it was Satan a-callin' of me. I never seen nobody." "I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an' I hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother's house, an' tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb up by." Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a [v]celerity in keeping with the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step was approaching the crag. A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of sharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on his stomach, only protruding his head beyond the verge of the crag, that he might not fling away his life in his curiosity. "Did ye git it?" he asked, with bated breath. "Git what?" demanded poor Ethan, surprised and impatient. "The tur-r-key--what ye hev done been talkin' 'bout," said George Birt. Ethan had lost all interest in the turkey. "Yes, yes; but run along, bub. I mought fall off'n this hyar place,--I'm gittin' stiff sittin' still so long,--or the wind mought blow me off. The wind is blowing toler'ble brisk." "Gobbler or hen?" asked George Birt eagerly. "It air a hen," said Ethan. "But look-a-hyar, George, I'm a-waitin' on ye an' if I'd fall off'n this hyar place, I'd be ez dead ez a door-nail in a minute." "Waal, I'm goin' now," said George Birt, with gratifying alacrity. He raised himself from his [v]recumbent position, and Ethan heard him shambling off, kicking every now and then at the fallen leaves as he went. Presently, however, he turned and walked back nearly to the brink of the cliff. Then he prostrated himself once more at full length,--for the mountain children are very careful of precipices,--snaked along dexterously to the verge of the crag, and protruding his red head cautiously, began to [v]parley once more, trading on Ethan's necessities. "Ef I go on this errand fur ye," he said, looking very sharp indeed, "will ye gimme one o' the whings of that thar wild tur-r-key?" He coveted the wing-feathers, not the joint of the fowl. The "whing" of the domestic turkey is used by the mountain women as a fan, and is considered an elegance as well as a comfort. George Birt [v]aped the customs of his elders, regardless of sex,--a characteristic of very small boys. "Oh, go 'long, bubby!" exclaimed poor Ethan, in dismay at the [v]dilatoriness and indifference of his [v]unique deliverer. "I'll give ye both o' the whings." He would have offered the turkey willingly, if "bubby" had seemed to crave it.