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“I’d like that,” he said one day as the trio were loafing away the afternoon in the shade of Holman’s bunkhouse, “and I think I’ll drift up that way and tackle it.” “It seems to me that you fellows hit on a really excellent plan to occupy your time during the summer. Who thought of it?” he asked after examining the plot. “Why—why of course not. Why of—of course it isn’t true. I—I don’t know what you mean. I—I—”.

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“Good afternoon, Aunt Grenertsen. How do you do?” He sat down in the chair by the door, where he knew he was expected to sit. There was once a widow who had two daughters. The elder was so like her mother in temper and face, that to have seen the one was to have seen the other. They were both so disagreeable and proud, that it was impossible to live with them. The younger, who was the exact portrait of her father in her kindly and polite ways, was also as beautiful a girl as one could see. As we are naturally fond of those who resemble us, the mother doted on her elder daughter, while for the younger she had a most violent aversion, and made her take her meals in the kitchen and work hard all day. Among other things that she was obliged to do, this poor child was forced to go twice a day to fetch water from a place a mile or more from the house, and carry back a large jug filled to the brim. As she was standing one day by this spring, a poor woman came up to her, and asked the girl to give her some water to drink. “Yes, can do,” stated the Indian, and as they had approached the upper camp during their talk, he made a swift move of the hand in farewell and slipped swiftly into the shadows. “Yes, you had better,” said Aunt Grenertsen. But when he had gone into the hall she called, “Johnny Blossom!”.