"Why, James," said his companion and chief counsellor, "do you think Grace likes you?" "I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable appearance of certainty. "But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Lot is cross about it." "Fudge! I can make Uncle Lot like me if I have a mind to try." "Well then, Jim, you'll have to give up that flute of yours, I tell you now." "Fa, sol, la--I can make him like me and my flute too." "Why, how will you do it?" "O, I'll work it," said our hero. "Well, Jim, I tell you now, you don't know Uncle Lot if you say so; for he is just the _settest_ critter in his way that ever you saw." "I _do_ know Uncle Lot, though, better than most folks; he is no more cross than I am; and as to his being _set_, you have nothing to do but make him think he is in his own way when he is in yours--that is all." "Well," said the other, "but you see I don't believe it." "And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go there this very evening, and get him to like me and my flute both," said James. Accordingly the late sunshine of that afternoon shone full on the yellow buttons of James as he proceeded to the place of conflict. It was a bright, beautiful evening. A thunder storm had just cleared away, and the silver clouds lay rolled up in masses around the setting sun; the rain drops were sparkling and winking to each other over the ends of the leaves, and all the bluebirds and robins, breaking forth into song, made the little green valley as merry as a musical box. James's soul was always overflowing with that kind of poetry which consists in feeling unspeakably happy; and it is not to be wondered at, considering where he was going, that he should feel in a double ecstasy on the present occasion. He stepped gayly along, occasionally springing over a fence to the right to see whether the rain had swollen the trout brook, or to the left to notice the ripening of Mr. Somebody's watermelons--for James always had an eye on all his neighbors' matters as well as his own. In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the picket fence that marked the commencement of Uncle Lot's ground. Here he stopped to consider. Just then four or five sheep walked up, and began also to consider a loose picket, which was hanging just ready to drop off; and James began to look at the sheep. "Well, mister," said he, as he observed the leader judiciously drawing himself through the gap, "in with you--just what I wanted;" and having waited a moment to ascertain that all the company were likely to follow, he ran with all haste towards the house, and swinging open the gate, pressed all breathless to the door. "Uncle Lot, there are four or five sheep in your garden!" Uncle Lot dropped his whetstone and scythe.