gray smoke from the log heap Abram was burning; and scattered
over spaces of a mile were half a dozen others, telling a story
of the activity of his neighbours. Like the low murmur of
distant music came the beating wings of hundreds of her bees,
rimming the water trough, insane with thirst. On the wood-pile
the guinea cock clattered incessantly: "Phut rack! Phut rack!"
Across the dooryard came the old turkey-gobbler with fan tail and
a rasping scrape of wing, evincing his delight in spring and
mating time by a series of explosive snorts. On the barnyard
gate the old Shanghai was lustily challenging to mortal combat
one of his kind three miles across country. From the river arose
the strident scream of her blue gander jealously guarding his
harem. In the poultry-yard the hens made a noisy cackling party,
and the stable lot was filled with cattle bellowing for the
freedom of the meadow pasture, as yet scarcely ready for grazing.

It seemed to the little woman, hesitating in the doorway, as if
all nature had entered into a conspiracy to lure her from her
work, and just then, clear and imperious, arose the demand of the
Cardinal: "Come here! Come here!"

Blank amazement filled her face. "As I'm a livin' woman!" she
gasped. "He's changed his song! That's what Abram meant by me
bein' invited. He's askin' folks to see his mate. I'm goin'."

The dull red of excitement sprang into her cheeks. She hurried
on her overshoes, and drew an old shawl over her head. She
crossed the dooryard, followed the path through the orchard, and
came to the lane. Below the barn she turned back and attempted
to cross. The mud was deep and thick, and she lost an overshoe;