assuredly that's something not to be lightly lost sight of."

Dawn was breaking when Bob finished. On the way to the house he met
his uncle coming out of the yard, a huge pail of swill for the pigs in
each hand.

"Thought I'd feed the pigs for you this morning," he said, as Bob set
down his milk pails and held the gate open for his uncle to pass
through. "It will take you a day or two to get your hand in," he
added.

Bob made no reply, but he noticed the swill was full of broken ice,
like the rain barrel from which he had taken the water to wash that
morning, and he was wondering how much good a cold breakfast like that
would do even for a pig.

He carried the milk pails into the kitchen, where he found his
grandmother busy preparing breakfast. "Shall I take the milk to the
cellar?" he asked, as he set the pails on the floor to rest his arms.

"No, thank you, Bob; I usually strain it here in the kitchen before
taking it down," she replied; "but you may feed the calves--that's
their warm milk there by the stove. You'll find four of them in the
orchard, back of the smokehouse. Divide the milk among them, and hurry
back to breakfast."

Bob disappeared with the milk, but was back in a few minutes. The tin
wash basin was put into service again--this time hot water from the
boiling tea kettle took the chill off, and in a few minutes, he joined
his uncle who, having already washed, had that moment seated himself