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Betty had a conviction, though an unspoken one, that Moses was the primary cause of Job’s infirmity. The slowest of a large family of striped fluffy turkeys to emerge from the shell, he had been assisted in his efforts by the impatient Moses. Betty felt sure that the clumsy fingers of the boy had ruined the little turkey’s eye. The accusation, however, was too dreadful to be put into words. To the melody of the shining bells, Betty dropped off to sleep. “I dassent do it, Betty,” replied Moses. “Anyhow this ole pair of scissors ’d do the job better.”.
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“Doh, re, mi, fah, soh, la, ti, doh,” sang the children in faint uncertain tones. To-day his mother’s words had left a pang. He would soon be a man and have to “think for himself.” Yes, and work, too. “Gee whiz! It’ll be tough not to play any more,” he exclaimed under his breath as he bowled along the tree-lined road that led to the Prettyman farm. “We can play the first canto, ‘The Chase,’ across the river in the Sunol Creek canyon,” Billy explained, eagerly. “Why have you been away out in the country for milk?”.
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