They went ahead or, rather, they followed Pat to the chicken yard, and spent a blissful half-hour among the feathered wonders.
They learned the names of the various kinds of chickens, and Dolly declared she should never tire of watching the little yellow fledglings patter around and peep.
“They’re not still a minute,” she said. “Can I try to catch one?”
Pat showed her how to lift one gently, without hurting the little soft ball of down, and as it was such a pretty little yellow one, Dolly named it Buttercup, and Pat said it should always be her own chicken.
Then Dick picked one out for his very own, and he chose a black one, and called it Cherry, because, he said, some cherries are black.
This made Pat laugh, and then he told the twins to run away and play by themselves, as he had to go to work in earnest.
“What’s your work, Pat?” asked Dolly, who liked to stay with the good-natured Irishman.
“I have to do the gardens, Miss Dolly. An’ it’s rale work, it is, not play. So do ye run away, now.”
“Oh, Pat, let us see you garden,” begged Dolly.
“Please do,” said Dick. “We never saw anybody garden in our life.”