churn, made from an old clothespin, fastened on her back.

"No, my mother doesn't churn," answered Brighteyes.

"Then I don't suppose you keep a cow," went on Mrs. Toad. "Neither do
we, but next door to us is the loveliest milk-weed you ever saw, and I
thought it a shame to see all the milk juice go to waste, so I churn it
every week. It makes very fine butter."

"I should think it might," answered Brighteyes. "But isn't it hard
work?"

"Yes, it is," replied Mrs. Toad, "and I know you'll excuse me, my dear,
for not stopping my jumping to sit and chat with you, but the truth of
the matter is that I think the butter is beginning to come, and I
daren't stop."

"Oh, don't stop on my account," begged Brighteyes, politely. "I can talk
while you jump."

"Very good," replied the toad, "I think I will soon be finished, though
on hot days the butter is longer in coming," and she began to hop up and
down faster than ever.

Then, all at once, oh, about as soon as you can pull off a porous
plaster when you're quick about it, if poor Mrs. Toad didn't give a cry,
and stop jumping.

"What's the matter?" asked Brighteyes, "has the butter come?"