"I knew there was kern pie made," said aunt Krin. "I guess we better
get into the carriage."

She held her short dress away from the bushes, and scampered with
Bobaday into the yard. Here they could not help stopping on the
warped floor of the porch to look into the empty house. It looked
lonesome already. A mouse had ventured out of the closet by the tall
sitting-room mantel; and a faint outline of the clock's shape
remained on the wall.

The house with its trees was soon fading into the past. The
neighbors were going home by the road or across fields. Zene's wagon,
drawn by the old white and gray, moved ahead at a good pace. It was
covered with white canvas drawn tight over hoops which were held by
iron clamps to the wagon-sides. At the front opening sat Zene,
resting his feet on the tongue. The rear opening was puckered to a
round O by a drawing string. Swinging to and fro from the hind axle,
hung the tar-bucket. A feed box was fitted across the hind end of the
wagon. Such stores as might be piled to the very canvas roof, were
concealed from sight by a black oilcloth apron hanging behind Zene.
This sheet of oilcloth was designed for an additional roof to keep
the goods dry when it rained.

Under the wagon, keeping well away from the tar-bucket, trotted
Boswell and Johnson. Bobaday named them; he had read something of
English literature in his grandfather's old books. Johnson was a fat
black and white dog, who was obliged to keep his tongue out of his
mouth to pant during the greater part of his days. He had fits of
meditation, when Boswell galloped all over him without provoking a
snap. Johnson was, indeed, a most amiable fellow, and had gained a