The Byrd was, as usual, attired in miniatures of Sam's overalls, and his
red mop stood on ends all over his head, while his freckles shone forth
resplendently from the excitement of my arrival.

"Say, Betty, what you think? Old Buttercup found a calf out in the woods
and it has got a white nose and two spots. Sam wanted to name it Chubb
for the doctor that saved its life 'fore it got borned, but I said
ladies first, and I calls it Betty. You can let it lick your fingers if
Sam milks on 'em first. And Dominick have hatched 'fore the white
hen--eleven, and one what Sam calls a half chicken, because he don't see
how it is black when the eggs was bought thoroughbreds; but Mammy says
because they is Yankee eggs. Come see all everything."

Sam's barn is an old tumble-down collection of sheds and the most lovely
place I ever got into. It is running over with new-born life, and you
can get an armful of first one variety and then another. I liked the
collie puppies best, but the Byrd was crazy about the little fawn calf
which old Buttercup is so proud of that she switches her tail in the
greatest complacency. He was just showing me how to tempt her little
white nose with a wisp of hay that she was learning to eat, and I was
luxuriating with one new-born wriggler in my arms and two yellow-down
puff-balls in my hand, when Sam and the mule came up from the field.

"My, it's great to have a nice family party like this to plow for!" he
said, as he led the mule into his stall and poured down his oats out of
a bucket the Byrd ran to bring him. "Any news from Petie, Bettykin?"

"I've got a letter from Peter that I haven't read, but one from Judge
Vandyne that I have. Here it is--read it," and I held the letter open
for Sam to read over my shoulder.