He
left her, still stretching her hand out, and rattled his cart up to
the children who were leaning from the carriage towards him.
"She is a lady of renown," chanted J. D. Matthews, indicating their
grandmother.
She makes good butter by the pound,
Her hand is kind, so is her tongue;
But when she comes I want to run!
He accordingly ran, rattling the cart like a hailstorm before him,
downhill; and out of their sight.
"Ah, there he goes!" sighed aunt Corinne, "and he hardly limps a
bit. I hope we'll see him again some time."
"I might 'a forced the money into his pocket," reflected Grandma
Padgett, as she took up the lines. "But I'd rather feel in debt to
that kind, simple soul than to many another. Why didn't we ask him if
he saw Zene's wagon up the road? These poor horses want oats. They'll
be glad to sight the white cover once more."
"I would almost rather have him come along," decided Robert Day,
"than to find the wagon. For he could make a camp anywhere, and speak
his poetry all the time. What fun he must have if he wants to stay in
the woods all night. I expect if he wanted to hide he could creep
into that cart and stretch out, with his face where he could smell
the honey and ginger cakes.
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