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"An' the punt too?" he asked. "Seen a what, your Anner?" "You black, thievin' passel of impudence, you!" she was saying. "If I had a stick long enough to reach you, you'd never dirty any more of my new-washed clothes.".

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Billy spit out the fox-tail. "Where's this feller Scroggie now?" he asked, in a business-like tone. "Ner me, either. I guess we'll have to give up the hunt fer t'night, Maurice. Anyways, we don't know jest how to work ol' Harry's fairy arrer." No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. The season of green and blue had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab and brown. Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. Along the creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome the first glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. Up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay-waters. "Listen thin." Harry touched Billy's arm. "Ivery day since I made me discovery an' hid box and jugs in a new spot have I visited that sour-faced ould Spencer, and I've said: 'Supposin' one should discover your stolen goods, Caleb Spencer, would ye be willin' t' let what little whisky there was left go to the finder?".