"Abram Johnson," said his wife, "bein's you set up for an honest
man, if you want to trapse through slush an' drizzle a half-mile
to see a bird, why say so, but don't for land's sake lay it on to
plowin' 'at you know in all conscience won't be ready for a week
yet 'thout pretendin' to look."

Abram grinned sheepishly. "I'm willin' to call it the bird if
you are, Maria. I've been hearin' him from the barn all day, an'
there's somethin' kind o' human in his notes 'at takes me jest a
little diffrunt from any other bird I ever noticed. I'm really
curious to set eyes on him. Seemed to me from his singin' out to
the barn, it 'ud be mighty near like meetin' folks."

"Bosh!" exclaimed Maria. "I don't s'pose he sings a mite better
'an any other bird. It's jest the old Wabash rollin' up the
echoes. A bird singin' beside the river always sounds twicet as
fine as one on the hills. I've knowed that for forty year.
Chances are 'at he'll be gone 'fore you get there."

As Abram opened the door, "Wet year! Wet year!" pealed the
flaming prophet.

He went out, closing the door softly, and with an utter disregard
for the corn field, made a bee line for the musician.

"I don't know as this is the best for twinges o' rheumatiz," he
muttered, as he turned up his collar and drew his old hat lower
to keep the splashing drops from his face. "I don't jest rightly
s'pose I should go; but I'm free to admit I'd as lief be dead as