"I ain't sayin' anything agin' the pitcher," retorted Slim. "I was jest
wonderin' how she happened t' git that cow down s' fine, brand 'n all,
without some kind uh pattern t' go by. S' fur 's the pitcher goes,
it's about as good 's kin be did with paint, I guess. I ain't ever
seen anything in the pitcher line that looked any natcherler."

"Well, I do think it's just splendid!" gurgled the Countess. "It's
every bit as good 's the one Mary got with a year's subscription t'
the Household Treasure fer fifty cents. That one's got some hounds
chasin' a deer and a man hidin' in 'the bushes, sost yuh kin jest see
his head. It's an awful purty pitcher, but this one's jest as good.
I do b'lieve it's a little bit better, if anything. Mary's has got
some awful nice, green grass, an' the sky's an awful purty blue--jest
about the color uh my blue silk waist. But yuh can't expect t' have
grass an' sky like that in the winter, an' this is more of a winter
pitcher. It looks awful cold an' lonesome, somehow, an' it makes yuh
want t' cry, if yuh look at it long enough."

The critics stampeded, as they always did when the Countess began to
talk.

"You better let Dunk take it with him, Dell," was the parting advice
of the Old Man.






CHAPTER XIV.